MERRY 

and  OTHER  TALES 


BY 

LEO   ROBBINS 


THE  STRATFORD  COMPANY 


BOSTON,       MASSACHUSETTS 
MCMXVII  I 


Copyright   1918 

The  STRATFORD  CO.,  Publishers 
Boston,    Mass. 


The  Alpine  Press,  Boston,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


Mary  the  Merry  .          .  1 

And  Yet  -  ....  7 

Pedigree      ...  .          .       17 

Sisters         ....  .21 

Ades'  "Ad"  for  Aid 25 

The  Price  ...  .29 

The  Christmas  Gift 33 

The  Life  of  the  Dead 39 

Something  to  Eat 51 

The  Pest     ....  .55 

Self-Justified 71 

Quips  of  Destiny         .....       77 


2137928 


Mary  the  Merry 

WERE  this  a  play,  for  which  I  wished  to  assure 
a  long  run  on  the  stage,  I  might  have  called  it 
the  ''Shocking  Stocking,"  or  "The  Naked 
Woman, "  or  "  Two  Bedrooms  in  One  Bed, ' '  perhaps. 
Were  it  a  magazine  serial  I  could  have  named  it  "The 
Matchless  Match,"  or  "The  Sinning  Sex,"  or  with 
greater  success,  "The  Seventh  Commandment." 
Again,  were  it  a  detective  story,  I  most  probably 
would  christen  it,  "Ten  Murders  for  Ten  Cents," 
"The  Invisible  Visible,"  or  "The  Stain  on  the  Tail  of 
the  World. ' '  But,  as  it  is  only  a  plain  story  of  a  plain 
girl,  in  a  plain  world,  and  for  plain  people — therefore, 
be  it  known  simply  as  ' '  Mary  the  Merry. ' ' 

For  the  story  of  Mary  the  Merry  it  is.  And  Mary 
the  Merry  was  neither  the  Vampire-woman  nor  the 
ethereal  creature  that  one  sees  on  the  stage,  nor  the 
Champagne  girl  of  the  Novel  or  the  Veiled  woman  in 
the  Detective  story.  Mary  was  the  daughter  of  a  cer- 
tain Steve  Egbers,  who  worked  six  days  at  the  Na- 
tional Woolen  Mills,  and  on  the  seventh  day,  which  Is 
Sabbath,  he  rested  from  his  labor,  —  at  "Noah's 
Ark, ' '  an  institution  managed  by  a  man  whose  Chris- 
tian name  was  Noah,  but  who  was  better  known  as 
"Red  Kelly."  And  Noah's  Ark  was  ever  floating 
upon  the  waters  prevailing  upon  the  earth  by  the 
wrath  of  God,  and  known  as  Alcohol. 

[1] 


MAEY  THE  MERRY 

Wherefore,  Mary's  mother  spoke  the  one  lan- 
guage known  all  over  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  termed 
curses  by  God  and  Man,  and  submerged  Mary's  home 
in  a  deluge  of  tears.  And  yet  more  blessings  knew 
Mary  in  her  home.  For  on  the  Sabbath  evenings  when 
the  Man,  Steve  Egbers,  returned  to  his  cave,  and  the 
disposition  of  Lot  was  his  —  then  did  the  blessings  of 
Sodom  and  Gomorrah  pour  forth  upon  him  from  the 
lips  of  the  "bone  of  his  bones,"  and  then  it  was  that 
the  temple  of  the  home  was  often  scattered  even  like 
the  tower  of  Babel. 

And  hath  not  God  bidden  mankind  to  increase 
and  multiply  ?  Behold  in  Steve  Egbers  the  God-fear- 
ing and  abiding!  For  eight  little  pairs  of  shoes  had 
he  to  create  in  the  six  days  of  Creation,  and  eight  lit- 
tle mouths  squeaked  on  Sabbath  Eve,  in  chorus  with 
their  mother's  bitter  welcome  to  their  provider.  Nay, 
we  cannot  know  the  number  which  the  tribe  of  Egbers 
might  reach  to  in  time. 

Yet  was  Mary,  the  oldest-born,  Mary  the  Merry. 
And  this  designation  she  fully  deserved  by  virtue 
of  her  nature.  Just  how  she  could  laugh,  and  hop  and 
dance  when  her  parents  squabbled  and  fought,  God 
knows,  but  this  much  we,  puny  mortals,  may  know; 
that  not  for  no  reason  was  Mary  called  Mary  the 
Merry 

Now,  you  most  certainly  have  read  that  fascinat- 
ing book  about  a  lame  little  boy,  who  was  always  happy 
and  made  others  happy.  Well,  then,  do  you  remember 
that  there  were  also  a  poor  rich  lady  and  a  miserable 

[2] 


MARY  THE  MEERY 

rich  man  who,  that  book  said,  came  to  know  sunshine 
through  the  happy  little  boy,  for  which  they  made  him 
really  happy?  If  you  remember  that,  I  say,  you  al- 
ready have  the  drift  of  my  story. 

For  the  poor  rich  may  be  debarred  from  the 
realms  of  happiness,  but  when  they  see  its  hue  they 
know  to  appreciate  it.  As  has  been  said  once  too 
often,  many  a  rose  would  have  died  untouched  if 
not  for  the  bee 

Which,  however,  must  not  take  us  away  from  our 
story.  It  is  for  mere  atmosphere,  probably,  that  I 
happen  to  bring  in  these  sweet  elements.  But  now,  for 
the  sake  of  a  little  symbolism  let  us  take  the  conclusion 
of  the  story  of  Mary  the  Merry,  and  see  if  you  could 
discover  all  these  elements  there. 

Mary  the  Merry,  like  her  father,  worked  at  the 
great  National  institution,  I  mean  the  Woolen  Mills. 
And  when  Mary  was  seventeen  she  had  been  there 
for  four  years. 

Four  years'  time  should  afford  many  a  chance  to 
laugh  and  shout  and  dance!  Ay,  four  years'  time 
should  afford  a  great  deal  of  dreaming  for  a  girl  like 
Mary.  But  it  happened  that  Mary  would  sometimes 
forget  herself  for  a  minute,  and  stand  staring  before 
her  blankly.  And  then  it  happened  that  Mary  could 
not  laugh  so  often  and  so  whimsically.  .  .  . 

What  could  Mary  see  in  such  instances?  The 
vision  was  not  always  the  same.  But  invariably  there 
was  a  big  automobile,  a  rich,  carpeted  room,  and 
laughter,  laughter,  laughter.  .  .  . 

[3] 


MAEY  THE  MERRY 

At  such  times  there  was  a  droop  noticeable  in 
Mary  the  Merry.  The  Merry  Mary  was  longing.  And 
it  took  long  before  at  last  there  appeared  to  her  an 
angel  of  mercy  to  realize  her  dreams.  And  he  was  a 
young  angel,  and  pleasant  to  look  upon. 

In  some  of  those  hasty  novels  he  would  "be  por- 
trayed as  a  devil  in  disguise. 

He  had  something  to  do  in  the  management  of  the 
Mills,  and  he  liked  Mary  the  first  time  he  saw  her. 
He  was  very  kind,  and  the  first  thing  he  said  to  her 
was  that  she  was  the  merriest  little  girl  he  had  ever 
seen.  And  he  had  seen  a  lot.  People  had  heard  of 
him  before,  and  seen  his  picture  in  the  papers  along- 
side the  beautiful  faces  of  a  half-dozen  chorus  girls. 
Then  it  was,  that  once,  Mary  spoke  to  him  of  her 
dreams,  and  he  saw  tears  in  her  pretty  eyes,  and  there 
was  a  little  flash  of  fire  in  his  own,  and  he  said  that 
he  would  see  her  dreams  realized.  And  one  evening 
—  it  was  a  fine  evening  —  she  waited  at  a  certain  cor- 
ner for  his  automobile,  and  he  came  along,  and  she 
hopped  in,  and  the  car  sped  off,  she  leaning  back  in 
the  soft  seat,  throbbing  with  pleasure. 

He  had  the  good-time  all  arranged  for  her.  A 
distance  from  the  city,  at  the  Richwood  Inn,  a  good 
supper  with  wine  was  awaiting  them.  They  were 
speeding. 

But  they  never  reached  the  inn.  There  was  a 
crash,  a  scream,  and  a  flare  of  fire.  And  little  Mary 
the  Merry  never  saw  her  dreams  realized.  .  .  . 

Still,  essentially,  Mary's  dream  came  true.     The 
[4] 


MARY   THE   MEERY 

newspapers  in  the  morning  could  not  have  it  other- 
wise but  that  the  treasurer  of  the  National  Woolen 
Mills  was  killed  in  an  automobile  accident,  while  mo- 
toring with  a  friend  of  the  family,  Miss  Mary  Egbers, 
well  known  in  Society  circles.  The  girl's  body  was 
pinned  under  the  ruins  of  the  car,  and  badly  muti- 
lated. 

This  is  the  story  of  Mary  the  Merry  It  might 
have  been  worse  had  she  reached  the  inn  with  the 
man.  . 


[5] 


And  Yet- 

AT  last  the  judge  leaned  forward,  over  his  desk, 
and  asked  the  question,  so  unavoidable  in  the 
case  before  him,  and  yet  so  hard,  so  unpleasant 
for  the  lawyers  to  put  before  the  shy,  humiliated 
woman  on  the  witness  stand. 

"But  how,"  he  said  in  his  kindliest  tones,  "did 
you  happen  to  find  yourself  in  the  same  taxi  with  the 
defendant?" 

The  young  woman  blushed.  A  deep,  timorous  red 
mantled  her  beautiful  face.  It  was  the  climax  of  her 
mortification,  what  she  was  expecting,  and  yet  so  hard 
to  bear.  But  she  was  ready  in  her  penitence  to  stand 
on  the  pillory  and  have  her  shame  unveiled  that  she 
might  be  purged.  She  twitched  the  little  handker- 
chief between  her  fingers.  A  sob  was  bubbling  up  In 
her  throat,  escaping  her ;  she  pressed  her  lips  tighter. 

The  silence  in  the  court  room  was  so  intense  that 
it  seemed  ready  to  crack.  The  judge  remained  in  his 
position,  his  lips  still  parted. 

Slowly  she  turned  her  eyes  upon  her  husband,  the 
man  who  loved  her,  the  man  against  whom  she  had 
sinned.  His  awkward  little  body  was  suspended  for- 
ward, his  lumpy,  knotted  face  rigid  with  expectation ; 
his  eyes,  seemingly  frozen  in  their  sockets,  were  on 
her.  They  were  full  of  love,  clemency,  forgiveness. 

[7] 


AND   YET  — 

Without  moving  her  head  she  saw  the  other  man, 
her  assailant.  He  was  leaning  back  in  his  seat  com- 
placently. His  splendid  body,  with  the  creased  trous- 
ers, patent  shoes,  lightly  stretched  forward,  seemed 
to  be  lounging  on  the  bench,  rather  than  sitting.  His 
hair,  combed  back,  flashed  a  streak  of  lustre.  His 
chin,  slightly  pointed,  threw  a  ribbon  of  shade  on  his 
immaculate  modish  collar  and  silk  cravat.  He  was 
grinning  cynically. 

She  dropped  her  eyes  to  her  lap,  closed  them  for 
an  instant,  then  began : 

"I  hope  you  will  understand,"  she  said.  Every 
one  in  the  room  breathed.  Her  voice  was  sweet  and 
firm.  ' '  I  shall  tell  my  story  here  before  my  husband, 
before  all  the  strangers  —  before  all  the  world.  I 
know  that  my  heart  will  feel  lighter  then. ' ' 

She  flushed  anew,  her  voice  grew  deep  with  emo- 
tion. She  continued: 

"I  never  meant  to  be  untrue  to  my  husband 
—  may  God  punish  me  if  I  did !  I  swear  here  before 
you  all  that  I  never  was  untrue  to  him.  He  loves  me, 
I  know  that.  He  has  given  me  everything  I  desired. 
I  respect  him.  I  —  I  love  him ! ' ' 

The  lawyer  for  the  defence  coughed.  She  drew 
the  end  of  her  handkerchief  across  one  eye,  then 
the  other,  and  resumed. 

' '  But  I  didn  't  have  enough  friends,  I  think.  My 
husband  is  hardly  ever  home.  I  know  very  few  peo- 
ple in  this  city.  Occasionally,  I  used  to  dress  up  in 
the  morning  and  go  shopping  for  the  day.  I'd  walk 

[8] 


AND   YET  — 

through  the  department-stores  until  my  feet  ached, 
then  return  home.  But  I  hate  the  store  counters.  I 
hate  the  asking  of  prices  and  salesgirls'  faces.  Most  of 
the  time  I  'd  plant  myself  at  the  window,  sit  there  all 
day  long,  and  watch  the  street. 

"I  used  to  think  an  awful  lot.  I  was  afraid  I'd 
lose  my  mind  thinking.  Lately  (she  lowered  her 
voice)  I  came  to  thinking  of  —  suicide." 

The  grotesque,  anxious  face  of  her  husband 
twitched  with  pain.  The  judge  bit  his  lip.  The  de- 
fendant alone  was  unmoved. 

"Then  I  began  noticing  this  —  this  man.  Each 
noon-time  he  would  appear  out  of  one  end  of  the 
street  and  walk  slowly  by.  Just  when  I  first  noticed 
him  I  don't  know  myself.  But  once  I  noticed  him  es- 
pecially in  the  crowd  —  I  don 't  know  why.  When  he 
appeared  the  next  day,  I  at  once  distinguished  him 
from  the  rest  of  the  people.  I  watched  for  him  every 
day  after  that,  and  each  time  he  walked  by  I  felt 
as  if  meeting  a  friend.  I  —  I  missed  him  one  day  when 
he  did  not  appear.  I'm  afraid  I  was  waiting  for  him 
anxiously  every  day." 

She  was  conscious  of  the  young  man's  cynical 
grin.  His  wilful  eyes,  focussed  on  her  face,  burned 
her  like  through  a  magnifying  glass. 

"One  day  when  he  passed  by  I  was  holding  a 
flower.  I  dropped  it  —  by  accident.  It  fell  upon  his 
hat,  and  he  stopped.  I  saw  him  take  it  in  his  hand 
and  looking  up  at  my  window.  He  tucked  the  flower 


AND   YET  — 

into  his  lapel,  lifted  his  hat  to  me,  and  smiled.  I  fled 
from  the  window ;  I  was  ashamed  of  myself. 

"I  could  not  forgive  myself  for  many  days. 

"But  somehow  I  was  drawn  to  the  window.  I 
used  to  hide  behind  the  curtains  every  time  he  passed. 
I  saw  him  look  up  each  time. 

"Then  I  got  so  lonesome  I  didn't  know  what  to 
do  with  myself.  I  could  no  longer  even  sit  at  the  win- 
dow. The  greater  a  multitude  I  saw  on  the  street  the 
lonesomer  I  grew.  I  couldn't  sit  in  one  place  for  a 
minute.  I  couldn't  eat,  I  couldn't  sleep.  I  felt  like 
strangling  myself.  .  .  . 

"On  the  street  was  streaming  by  such  a  mass,  a 
great  sea  of  people,  and  no  one  cared  for  me,  no  one 
had  a  thought  for  me.  No  one  knew  I  was  so  lonesome, 
so  near.  He  alone  would  look  up  at  my  window  and 
expect  me.  .  .  . 

"  'My  friend!'  I  exclaimed  many  times  behind 
the  curtains  when  I  saw  him  raise  his  eyes  to  my  win- 
dow." 

She  was  crying  now,  but  mastered  herself  imme- 
diately. 

"One  day  I  was  so  desperate  that  I  was  ready 
to  call  him  up.  I  didn't  dare. 

' '  I  decided  I  must  get  out  of  the  house,  get  some 
recreation,  excitement.  My  husband  had  always 
begged  me  to  enjoy  myself  the  best  I  could ;  but  I  had 
never  cared  to  go  out  alone. 

"That  evening  I  insisted  that  he  go  out  with  me 
to  some  cabaret  or  other.  He  was  surprised  at  first,  I 

[10] 


AND   YET  — 

think.  But  he  was  very  tired,  he  said.  He  would  only 
go  to  oblige  me,  and  this  I  could  not  bear.  I  cried  and 
refused  to  answer  him  or  talk  to  him. 

* '  He  went  to  bed  early.  I  was  already  in  my  bed, 
sobbing.  He  tried  to  soothe  me,  and  only  succeeded 
in  getting  me  furious.  I  brought  all  the  jewels  he  had 
bought  me  and  threw  them  in  his  face.  I  didn  't  want 
his  jewels  when  I  couldn't  wear  them. 

"I  know  that  I  caused  him  pain.  I  am  sorry 
now. ' ' 

Her  husband  gasped.  The  defendant  laughed 
aloud. 

"He  fell  asleep  soon.  I  stopped  crying.  I  was 
enraged  by  his  sleep.  How  could  he  sleep,  I  thought, 
when  I  was  so  miserable ! 

"Suddenly  a  notion  came  to  me.  I  ran  to  the 
mirror,  arranged  my  hair,  my  face,  put  on  my  best 
gown,  gathered  all  my  scattered  jewels  on  my  body. 
I  had  three  hundred  dollars  in  a  drawer.  I  took  that, 
and  stole  out  of  the  house. 

' '  On  the  street  I  called  a  taxi,  and  told  the  chauf- 
feur to  take  me  to  the  best  cafe  in  the  city." 

Even  on  the  refined  face  of  the  judge  the  ex- 
pression was  that  of  piquant  curiosity. 

"The  place  was  a  turmoil  of  mirth  and  light.  I 
felt  so  reckless  that  I  was  surprised  at  myself.  Sit- 
ting alone  at  my  table,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  myself 
in  one  of  the  mirrors.  I  was  the  richest-looking  there. 

"A  man  was  trying  to  get  my  attention  from  a 
nearby  table.  It  was  he,  the  young  man  for  whom 

[11] 


AND   YET  — 

I  had  been  watching  daily  at  my  window  —  the  only 
man  in  the  multitude  who  knew  that  I  existed. 

"I  was  confused  at  first,  then  I  nodded  and 
smiled.  He  came  over  to  my  table  and  pressed  my 
hand." 

She  was  silent  for  a  minute.  She  seemed  to  gather 
new  strength.  Presently,  her  eyes  still  on  her  lap,  she 
went  on: 

' '  I  didn  't  even  ask  his  name.  But  I  had  the  love- 
liest time  of  my  life.  I  love  dancing,  and  I  never  en- 
joyed my  dancing  so  much.  I  simply  didn't  know 
what  I  was  doing." 

"Nothing  rough?"  interrupted  one  of  the  attor- 
neys. 

"No,  no,"  she  replied.  "He  was  the  most  gen- 
tlemanly man  I  ever  met.  I  haven't  met  many  men, 
but- 

"You  may  proceed  with  your  story,  please,"  said 
the  judge,  scowling  at  the  lawyer  for  the  interrup- 
tion. 

"Well,"  she  resumed,  "later  in  the  evening  I 
suddenly  remembered  what  I  had  done,  and  what  my 
husband  might  think  of  me  if  he  found  out  my  ab- 
sence. I  was  anxious  to  be  home  again.  He  insisted 
that  I  must  let  him  escort  me.  At  first  I  didn't  give 
in;  I  always  had  a  fear  of  sitting  with  a  man  other 
than  my  husband  in  a  car,  but  he  was  so  persistent, 
and  he  had  meant  so  much  to  me  that  evening,  that  I 
simply  couldn  't  be  rude  to  him. ' ' 

She  ceased  talking  and  pulled  her  handkerchief 
[12] 


AND   YET  — 

more  nervously.  She  had  reached  the  strategic  point 
in  her  story,  where  it  was  hardest  for  her  to  talk. 
Finally,  with  an  effort  she  resumed,  her  voice  vibrant 
in  accordance  with  her  tale. 

"We  got  into  a  taxi  and  drove  for  my  home.  I 
felt  guilty,  apprehensive,  and  dejected.  He  tried  to 
cheer  me  up.  My  ill  humor  was  already  melting,  when 
suddenly  I  felt  his  hand  unbuckling  my  bracelet.  I 
grasped  him  by  the  sleeve,  but  he  threw  himself  upon 
me  and  was  choking  me.  I  struggled.  I  bit  his  hand, 
I  kicked,  I  clenched  my  fingers,  so  that  he  couldn't 
take  the  rings  off.  He  hit  me  in  the  face  with  his  fist. 
I  felt  blood  running  from  my  mouth  and  nose.  Still 
I  struggled  on.  .  .  . 

"I  felt  I  was  going  to  faint.  He  was  strangling 
me.  I  kicked  at  the  door.  There  was  a  crash  of  glass. 
The  car  stopped. 

"He  cursed  and  began  tearing  my  earrings.  It 
pained  —  I  screamed  —  I ' ! 

She  had  got  up  from  her  seat  entranced  with  the 
vividness  of  her  terrible  experience,  re-enacting  it  de- 
liriously. But  before  she  came  to  a  close  she  collapsed, 
her  arms  falling  limp  across  the  railing. 


The  trial  was  resumed  in  the  afternoon  session. 
The  chance  visitors  to  court  clung  to  their  seats,  un- 
like the  usual  court  recesses.  The  woman  was  again 
composed,  sitting  beside  her  uncouth  husband.  He 
was  called  upon  to  testify,  and  he  eagerly  assured  the 

[13] 


AND   YET  — 

judge  that  his  wife  was  not  the  kind  that  is  apt  to 
go  astray.  In  his  meek  way,  he  said  something  about 
himself  being  a  criminal,  and  an  example  to  other 
negligent  husbands. 

The  chauffeur  recognized  the  defendant  as  the 
man  he  had  in  his  ear  with  the  lady  on  the  night  in 
question.  He  said  that  he  stopped  his  car  when  he 
heard  the  crash  of  glass  behind  him. 

A  police  officer  testified  how  he  was  attracted  by 
the  screams  of  a  woman  in  a  taxi,  and  how  he  ran 
four  blocks  in  pursuit  of  the  assailant  before  he  caught 
him. 

This  was  followed  by  the  report  from  the  ambu- 
lance doctor  of  the  Emergency  Hospital. 

"Upon  examination,"  he  said,  "I  have  found  two 
front  teeth  knocked  out,  and  one  molar.  Arms  badly 
scratched;  throat  bruised  in  six  places. 

"The  lobe  of  the  left  ear  brutally  torn  away." 

Unconsciously  all  eyes  rested  on  the  ear  of  the 
mortified  woman.  The  bandage  had  been  recently  re- 
moved and  the  wound  was  still  raw.  Compared  with 
her  beautiful  features,  even  the  sight  of  it  was  brutal. 

From  police  records  it  was  established  that  the 
defendant,  Jerome  Bowden,  known  in  the  white  light 
districts  as  "Jerry  Bow",  was  one  of  the  champion 
male  parasites  who  forever  haunt  the  pleasure  dens 
of  the  city.  There  are  many  like  him  at  large  in  the 
city,  the  judge  said,  preying  upon  the  rich  women 
who  once  or  often  visit  the  gay  districts.  They  are  all 
of  magnetic  charm,  elegant  manners,  and  winning 

[14] 


AND   YET  — 

ways.  If  only  all  this  man 's  victims  were  to  enter  their 
complaints,  God  knows  how  many  family  tragedies  we 
might  have. 

"Nine  months  at  hard  labor!"  he  pronounced 
sentence. 

The  prisoner  was  being  led  out  by  the  court  offi- 
cer. He  stepped  nimbly,  carelessly.  Passing  by  the 
woman's  chair,  he  deliberately  brushed  his  arm 
against  her.  Her  husband  instinctively  drew  her 
closer  to  him.  But  she  did  not  shrink  from  the  crimi- 
nal's  touch.  She  sat  at  her  husband's  side,  following 
with  yearning,  wistful  eyes  the  lithe  figure  of  the 
young  man  moving  away  from  her.  .  .  . 


[15] 


Pedigree 


WHEN  Hogerman,  the  rich  silk  manufacturer, 
married  his  wife,  he  knew  her  tragic  life  story. 
She  had  told  him  even  while  he  was  wooing  her 
that  she  was  a  foundling,  cast  upon  the  streets  of  Lon- 
don when  two  weeks  old.  Indeed,  she  had  related  to 
him  how  she  had  been  raised  in  an  institution  until 
her  tenth  year,  and  then  given  into  the  service  of  a 
land-owner's  kitchen,  where  she  worked  for  the  next 
seven  years,  and  saved  up  enough  to  carry  her  to 
America.  Fortunately,  upon  arriving  in  the  free 
country,  she  got  a  job  in  the  Hogerman  shops.  There 
the  proprietor  laid  eyes  on  her,  and  soon  married  her. 

He  was  not  so  rich  then,  widowed  twice,  and 
forty-three.  In  the  shop  he  wore  a  brown  derby,  ram- 
bled about  in  an  old  woolen  vest,  and  did  all  the  floor- 
work  himself.  The  girl  was  used  to  masters,  and  he 
sensed  it  the  first  day  she  came  in  to  work  for  him. 
This,  in  addition  to  her  good  looks, — a  taste  for  which 
he  had  cultivated  probably  in  his  selection  of  pat- 
terns,— were  exactly  the  qualities  he  required  of  his 
wife. 

She  accepted  him,  and  was  envied  by  the 
shop  girls.  To  be  sure,  she  was  not  exactly  happy. 
But  she  had  little  time  to  consider  it  before  the 
wedding,  and  much  less  after.  She  became  mistress 

[17] 


PEDIGREE 

of  a  fairly  large  house,  and  nurse  to  a  round  half- 
dozen  children  from  his  deceased  wives.  She  gave 
Mr.  Hogerman  satisfaction  and  strengthened  his  self- 
assurance  that  he  invariably  knew  what  he  was  doing. 

In  the  few  years  following  their  marriage,  his 
wealth  doubled,  and  his  mercantile  dominions  in- 
creased. He  grew  less  stingy  in  his  household,  and  his 
wife  went  buying  to  the  market  in  a  limousine.  This 
epoch  was  marked  by  the  birth  of  a  child  —  a  boy. 

Now,  sometimes  as  people  grow  rich  they  grow 
romantic.  Hogerman  soon  came  to  suffer  these  effects. 
He  no  longer  did  any  manual  work  in  the  shop,  and 
sometimes  read  a  newspaper  in  the  dull  office  hours. 
Occasionally,  he  told  his  wife  to  dress,  and  they  rode 
in  their  automobile  to  a  show.  Movies  he  liked  best, 
and  he  fell  into  the  habit  of  seeing  a  picture  show  once 
a  week.  His  wife  did  not  care  so  much  for  the  photo- 
drama,  could  not  sit  through  a  show  after  her  day's 
hustling  about  the  house  without  falling  asleep,  but 
she  always  had  to  go  along. 

And  on  the  screen  a  lost,  deserted  child  is  as 
common  as  insurance  agents  in  this  world,  or  as  movie 
shows  themselves,  for  that  matter.  When  watching 
such  plays,  Mrs.  Hogerman  invariably  cried,  and  Ho- 
german inwardly  sympathized  with  her. 

However,  on  the  screen,  all  the  lost,  deserted 
children  were  sooner  or  later  reclaimed  by  their  par- 
ents. Why  was  not  his  wife?  Furthermore,  these 
parents  were  always  lords,  princes  and  kings.  Was  it 
not  possible  that  his  wife,  too,  was  of  noble  blood  ? 

[18] 


PEDIGREE 

His  son  might  be  heir  to  a  lordship  if  his  wife's 
parentage  were  known. 

He  reflected  on  his  wife 's  qualities.  ' '  Sometimes 
I  do  think  you  have  noble  blood  in  you,"  he  com- 
mented once  casually.  She  cried  from  happiness,  took 
his  hairy  hand,  brushed  her  cheek  against  it  and  kissed 
it.  He  experienced  a  thrill  he  had  been  craving  for 
during  all  these  years  of  his  mastery  over  the  shops. 

Then  he  decided  to  make  an  attempt  at  unveiling 
her  identity.  He  saw  his  lawyer  on  the  matter,  and 
the  lawyer  mailed  a  formal  inquiry  to  the  institution 
at  which  the  girl  had  been  raised. 

He  meant  to  save  the  developments  as  a  surprise 
for  her,  but  could  not  resist  telling  her  of  his  efforts 
the  same  evening.  She  sobbed  all  night.  Hogerman 
was  sorry  for  that  —  his  sleep  was  disturbed.  But  he 
did  not  scold  her.  On  the  contrary,  he  appreciated 
her  emotions.  In  fact,  she  kept  on  muttering  how 
good  a  husband  he  was. 

It  took  a  month  for  the  reply  to  come  from  Eng- 
land. Cautiously  his  wife  asked  him  each  day  if 
there  was  any  news.  He  was  not  in  the  habit  of  talk- 
ing business  to  his  wife,  but  he  answered  good-hum- 
oredly.  At  last  the  answer  from  England  was  re- 
ceived. He  told  his  wife  one  night  that  to-morrow 
she  might  know  who  her  parents  were.  Her  nerves 
were  all  on  edge. 

The  institution  had  knowledge  of  his  wife's  par- 
ents. It  seemed  that  only  recently  a  woman  had  come 
to  their  office  inquiring  about  the  child,  and  bringing 

[19] 


PEDIGREE 

evidence  that  she  was  the  mother.  They  had  had  no 
inkling  at  that  time  of  the  whereabouts  of  the  girl,  but 
they  knew  that  she  was  in  America,  and  thither  went 
her  mother  in  search  of  her.  They  enclosed  the  moth- 
er's address. 

And  our  little  world  is  one  big  pot  of  coincidents, 
it  would  seem.  Hogerman  knew  the  woman.  He  knew 
her  well.  She  was  one  of  his  present  employees, — a 
green  hand  in  his  own  shop ! 

He  at  once  dismissed  his  lawyer. 

When  he  came  home  in  the  evening  his  wife  was 
all  anxiety.  She  had  thinned  through  the  few  weeks, 
awaiting  her  fate.  He  looked  cross,  and  she  dared  not 
greet  him  directly  with  her  questions.  She  danced 
about  him  for  some  time,  attending  him  feverishly, 
and  still  he  didn't  say  anything.  She  could  not  bear 
it  any  longer. 

"Oh,  how  I  wish  I  could  see  my  mother!"  she 
sighed. 

"Don't  bother  me,"  he  snapped.  "You  have  no 
mother!" 


[20] 


Sisters 

WHILE  Mary  was  still  in  the  seventh  grade 
grammar  school,  a  child  twelve  years  old,  her 
sister  Ehoda  complained  that  she  was  support- 
ing the  kid.  Rhoda  was  considerably  older  than  her 
"kid"  sister,  but  ridiculously  smaller  than  Mary,  for 
her  age.  Not  that  Mary  was  overgrown  for  her  years, 
but  that  Rhoda  was  simply  a  skirt  and  waist,  and  the 
waist  was  too  small  on  her  twelve-year-old  sister.  Her 
face  alone  bore  witness  to  her  twenty-two  years,  and 
at  that  she  had  to  use  the  puff  and  rouge  to  keep  it 
from  proclaiming  even  more  years  in  the  factory. 

To  these  complaints  Mary  would  reply  with  some 
heat: 

"What  a  jealous  thing!  I  never  seen  anything 
like  her.  She's  jealous  because  I'm  gonna  graduate 
next  year,  and  she  was  never  in  the  seventh  grade 
even." 

"I  don't  care,"  Rhoda  would  retort  with  bitter- 
ness, tears  springing  to  her  eyes.  "A  lot  you  know  if 
you  do  go  to  school.  Take  off  my  waist. "  She  would 
suddenly  fall  to  tearing  the  waist  off  her  sister. 
"Never  dare  put  on  nothin'  of  mine;  d'you  hear? 
Never!" 

"Pest!"  Mary  would  explode,  resisting  her  sis- 
ter. "You  think  a  lot  I  care  for  your  rags.  ...  It's 

[21] 


SISTERS 

too  small  on  me  anyways.  You  think  I  got  a  hunch 
like  you?"  and  she  would  viciously  draw  in  her  young 
body  in  imitation  of  her  sister. 

Then  Ehoda  would  go  off  in  hysterics  and  vow  re- 
peatedly that  she  'd  never  again  go  to  work  in  the  fac- 
tory if  the  kid  wouldn't. 

Nevertheless,  they  slept  in  one  bed  (the  same  bed 
where  Rhoda  wept  over  her  mortifications)  and  Mary 
kept  on  squeezing  herself  into  her  jealous  hunch-back 
sister's  clothing. 

But  have  not  wise  men  spoken  of  evolution,  or 
some  other  institution  in  operation  under  Father 
Time?  The  case  of  Mary  and  Rhoda,  two  sisters  in 
blood,  in  love,  and  in  quarrels — two  sisters  of  one 
father  and  one  mother,  in  one  dress  and  one  bed — this 
case,  I  repeat,  shall  illustrate  the  sagas  of  our  Magi, 
as  set  forth: 

For  be  it  known  that  Mary  was  never  to  be 
blessed  by  the  Fates  with  the  fortune  of  tasting  the 
sweet,  savory  ceremony  of  graduation.  Times  were 
bad,  and  Mary's  father,  in  combination  with  Rhoda, 
scantily  supplied  the  needs  of  the  little  family. 
Sternly  the  father  debated  the  matter  with  the 
mother,  and  the  mother  groaned  once  or  twice — of 
which  she  was  sometimes  guilty  when  going  to  the 
grocery,  —  then  there  was  a  visit  to  the  School  Com- 
mittee, and  a  little  explanation  of  hard  luck,  and  a 
working  certificate  for  Mary  was  procured. 

Which  set  Mary  in  preparation  for  the  factory 
on  the  next  Monday  morning ;  which  made  her  father 

[22] 


SISTERS 

watch  her  sternly  from  the  corner  of  his  eye,  when 
she  didn  't  see  it ;  which  caused  her  mother  to  be  em- 
barrassingly fonder  of  her  and  pester  her,  as  Ehoda 
would  call  it,  which  caused  Mary's  boasting  that 
now  she  would  buy  better  dresses  than  her  sister  ever 
had. 

But  Rhoda,  where  was  she  ?  She  swelled  up  like 
a  five-cent  balloon,  and  vowed  immediately  that  she'd 
give  the  fore-flusher  trouble  in  the  factory.  Mary  in 
turn  referred  to  her  sister's  hunch-back,  and  the  row 
was  started. 

It  was  on  Sunday  morning  previous  to  that  Mon- 
day morning — the  morning  so  epoch-making  for  the 
family.  As  a  result  Mary  could  not  get  a  certain 
waist  of  Rhoda 's  which  she  liked,  and  Rhoda  lay  weep- 
ing in  their  common  bed  all  that  Sunday. 

Still  not  on  speaking  terms,  the  two  sisters  re- 
tired for  the  night.  Mary  could  not  resist  a  spontane- 
ous temptation  and  stuck  out  a  tongue  to  her  sister 
before  crawling  under  the  one  cover  and  cuddling  her 
young  body  close  to  the  hunch-back's. 

In  the  morning  Mary  woke  earlier  than  usual,  in 
a  state  of  fervid  expectation.  Rhoda  was  already  up 
and  out  of  bed.  As  always,  her  father  was  gone,  and 
her  mother  was  prowling  around  the  house  like  a 
ghost,  slicing  bread,  and  making  sandwiches. 

For  some  time  Mary  was  the  only  one  who  said 
anything.  She  noticed  that  her  lunch  was  being  put 
up  in  one  bundle  with  Rhoda 's  and  their  state  of  siege 

[23] 


SISTERS 

recurred  to  her.  "I  don't  want  to  eat  with  her;  she 
said  she'd  make  me  trouble." 

Their  mother  sighed,  and  wrapped  up  the  lunch 
in  two  separate  scraps  of  newspaper. 

But  Mary  was  chagrined  because  Rhoda  made  no 
retort.  The  hunch-back  sat  at  her  coffee  mute,  as  if 
no  verbal  missile  had  been  thrown  at  her.  "She'll 
croak  when  I  make  more  money  than  her,"  Mary 
thought. 

It  was  time  to  start  out ;  still  Rhoda  did  not  move. 
Mary  grew  nervous.  "It's  late,"  she  said  to  her 
mother,  indirectly  reminding  Rhoda  to  start  out. 

Rhoda  rose  from  her  seat,  took  her  lunch,  and 
made  a  step.  But  suddenly  she  grasped  her  sister  in 
her  arms,  and  was  kissing  her  madly.  "Poor  little 
sister,"  she  sobbed.  "Poor  little  sister!" 


[24] 


Ades'  "Ad"  for  Aid 

TO  the  headquarters ! ' '  Mrs.  Ades  ordered,  leaning 
back  in  her  seat. 

The  chauffeur  at  once  started  the  limousine 
for  the  Belgian  relief  headquarters.  He  knew  where 
his  mistress  meant  him  to  take  her ;  he  was  an  experi- 
enced man. 

Before  they  had  left  the  fashionable  street  behind 
them,  however,  Mrs.  Ades  changed  her  mind.  She 
carried  the  little  tube  to  her  lips,  and  ordered : 

"Ades'  Department  Store,  Stephen." 

The  automobile  at  once  turned  its  course  thither. 

William  Ades,  proprietor  of  the  great  business 
house,  was  at  the  office.  He  dismissed  his  superintend- 
ent when  his  wife  was  shown  in. 

He  met  her  in  his  noted  cordial  manner,  for 
which  he  was  so  admired  in  his  business  world.  ' '  How 
are  you,  darling?"  he  asked,  and  taking  her  gently 
in  his  arms,  placed  her  in  his  own  seat.  ' '  I  congratu- 
late you." 

"So  you've  heard,  dear?"  she  registered  sur- 
prise. ' '  I  suppose  you  read  about  it  in  the  papers  this 
morning,  dear?" 

"Oh,  ye-es,"  drawled  Mr.  Ades,  as  if  he  were 
pleasing  an  extra-good  customer.  ' '  Quite  a  big  display 
on  the  front  page.  I  was  immediately  attracted  by  it." 
He  took  a  newspaper  from  his  desk.  "  'Mrs.  Ades 

[25] 


ABES'     "AD"    FOR   AID 

Elected  President  of  Belgian  Relief.'  That's  the  sec- 
ond surprise  you've  given  me,  darling.  President  of 
the  Associated  Charities,  too,  I  understand.  Is  it  not 
too  hard  for  you,  dear?" 

"Not  if  I  like  it,"  replied  his  wife  sweetly.  "The 
poor  dears!  How  they  must  be  suffering  there,  in 
Belgium !  .  .  .  But  I  've  dropped  in  to  ask  you  a  lit- 
tle advice,  dear." 

"Yes, ?"  he  said. 

"You  see,  dear,  we  would  like  to  fix  up  our  win- 
dow at  the  headquarters  —  something  attractive,  you 
know.  Can't  you  suggest  something?" 

"Anything  from  the  war  zone,  I  should  think, 
would  be  0  K,"  said  Mr.  Ades.  "You  have  some 
stuff  there,  have  you  not  ? ' ' 

"Ye-es,  rifles,  pieces  of  shell  —  even  a  cannon 
ball." 

"Good  enough,"  assured  Mr.  Ades.  "Though 
some  clothing  —  from  the  war,  you  know,  would  be 
better." 

' '  For  instance ? ' ' 

"Oh,  a  pair  of  shoes  the  poor  children  there  are 
wearing.  Effect,  don't  you  know." 

"Ah!"  she  gasped  in  comprehension.  Then  she 
kissed  him,  wrapped  herself  up  in  her  furs,  and  left 
him  to  his  business. 


The  automobile  wormed  its  way  through  the  shop- 
ping district.  The  horn  blew  incessantly  until  they 
had  turned  into  a  wider  street  bordered  on  one  side 

[26] 


ADES'     "AD"    FOE   AID 

by  a  metropolitan  park.  On  the  other  side  ran  a  line 
of  milliners'  and  dressmakers'  window  displays  of  the 
highest  kind.  Now  and  then  the  car  flashed  by  a  flo- 
rist's shop.  On  this  street  the  Ades'  limousine  fell  in 
with  a  line  of  other  automobiles. 

The  car  veered  to  the  left,  and  tore  full  speed 
down  a  little  street  of  the  fashionable  district.  Mrs. 
Ades  could  almost  see  the  Headquarters  from  the  cor- 
ner. 

Suddenly  she  started  forward  in  her  seat,  uttered 
a  little  shriek  of  horror,  and  shut  her  eyes.  Even  with 
her  eyes  shut,  she  saw  the  automobile  flying  upon  the 
child.  .  .  .  She  shuddered. 

But  Stephen  was  a  good  man  on  the  job.  He  ap- 
plied the  brakes,  and  the  car  stopped.  Mrs.  Ades  was 
jerked  heavenward,  and  then  she  landed  back  on  her 
seat. 

She  opened  her  eyes  and  breathed.  The  little  boy 
was  lying  at  the  forewheel,  frightened,  crying,  but 
unhurt. 

She  was  breathing  hard.  Her  heart  was  press- 
ing, yet  she  was  determined  to  avoid  hysterics  on  the 
street,  with  no  maid  around.  She  made  a  move  to  get 
out  of  the  car.  Stephen  rushed  to  open  the  door. 

The  boy  was  now  on  his  feet,  still  crying  and  pale 
with  fright.  He  was  a  cute  child,  about  eight  years 
old,  and  did  not  belong  to  that  neighborhood.  He  was 
in  rags. 

Mrs.  Ades  breathed  with  relief.  She  bent  down, 
and  touched  the  wan  child  gently  on  his  pale  cheeks. 

[27] 


ABES'     "AD"   FOE  AID 

"Now,  now,  don't  cry,  little  one.  I'll  give  you  a 
dollar  and  you  run  home,  darling." 

His  little  heart  was  throbbing  with  fright.  He 
could  not  stop  crying. 

Mrs.  Ades  felt  embarrassed.  She  wanted  to  be 
kind,  and  she  must  be  kind.  Yet,  it  was  not  pleasant 
to  be  soothing  the  little  brat  in  tatters. 

When  she  was  about  to  climb  back  into  her  auto- 
mobile, she  was  reminded  of  the  poor,  suffering  chil- 
dren in  Belgium.  Then  suddenly  her  face  lit  up  with 
an  inspiration.  She  surveyed  quickly  the  little  figure 
in  rags  again,  caught  it  in  her  arms,  and  bundled  it 
into  her  car.  A  minute  later  the  car  stopped  before 
the  Belgian  Belief  Headquarters. 


The  next  day  idle  crowds  were  haunting  the  win- 
dow of  the  Belgian  Relief  Headquarters.  The  news- 
papers had  photographs  of  its  display  in  the  noon 
editions,  and  in  advertising  circles  the  window  show 
was  spoken  of  as  "interesting". 

Especially  attractive  in  the  window  was  a  pair 
of  child 's  shoes  worn  out  to  strips,  the  leather  colorless 
from  age  and  wear.  This  interesting  remains  of  shoes 
stood  out  alone  on  an  immaculate  glass  plate,  and  un- 
der it  was  a  neat  little  card  bearing  the  following 
words : 

"What  the  children  in  Belgium  are  wearing  — 
Help!" 

[28] 


The  Price 

I    SHOULD  need  a  carload  of  French  phrases  to 
tell  this  story;  for  it  is  a  Society  story.    But,  as 

I  don't  know  enough  French  to  mutilate  the  lan- 
guage, I  must  needs  tell  this  story  in  plain,  intelligent 
English. 

There  was  a  little  girl  by  the  name  of  Lillian, 
who  worked  in  a  sweater  factory.  And  when  Lillian 
was  seventeen  she  must  have  been  rather  pleasant  to 
look  upon.  For  be  it  understood,  that  not  without 
reason  does  a  foreman  shower  his  attentions  upon  a 
slow  "hand."  But  Lillian's  aspirations  flew  beyond 
the  walls  of  the  sweater  factory.  Alas,  her  young 
heart  was  craving  for  Society. 

Not  enough  that  she  knew  the  name  of  every 
movie  actor  upon  looking  at  the  picture.  She  even 
knew  the  name,  habits  and  pedigree  of  every  society 
girl  who  eloped  with  her  chauffeur.  Ay,  she  even  pre- 
tended to  know  which  of  these  chauffeurs  happened 
to  be  married — in  which  case  the  elopement  was  con- 
sidered a  greater  Society  stunt. 

So  Lillian  yearned  away  for  Society.  The  So- 
ciety columns  in  the  newspapers  —  may  they  increase 
and  multiply  (on  some  other  planet)  — nourished  her 
glutton  fancy  for  Society,  until  she  could  actually 
find  incorrectnesses  in  the  setting  of  the  society  novels 
that  she  read  in  the  Naughty  Stories  Magazine. 

[29] 


THE    PRICE 

Which  should  entitle  her  to  a  place  in  Society  as 
some  pillar  or  other.  But,  somehow,  qualifications 
alone  do  not  warrant  admittance  within  the  magnifi- 
cence of  Society  precincts.  If  we  consider  Lillian's 
weekly  allowance  at  the  T.  B.  Knitting  Mills,  we  may 
guess  at  the  absence  of  her  picture  in  the  Sunday 
newspapers. 

Nevertheless,  perseverance  —  a  virtue  supreme  — 
will  at  last  plant  the  lowliest  at  the  pinnacle  of  one's 
ambition.     This  is  in  reference  to  Lillian,  who  after 
long  days  of  abortive  dreaming  finally  became  a  solid 
fact  to  Society. 

It  was  all  a  matter  of  chance. 

For,  you  see,  Lillian  had  an  acquaintance  who 
worked  in  the  kitchen  of  one  of  the  bulwarks  of  So- 
ciety. And  this  acquaintance,  by  virtue  of  her  social 
position,  was  the  door  of  opportunity  which  finally 
gave  Lillian  access  to  Society. 

Of  a  sudden,  Lillian  sought  the  friendship  of  that 
girl,  and  as  often  as  possible  paid  her  visits  in  the 
kitchen.  It  is  true,  sometimes  Lillian  could  snatch  a 
glance  into  a  farther  room;  but  mostly  all  she  could 
manage  was  to  listen  to  her  friend  talking  to  her 
of  the  boss,  the  son  of  the  house,  who  was  "such  a 
nice  fellow."  Until  (by  chance)  Lillian  met  the 
young  scion  of  the  house,  and  her  position  in  Society 
took  root. 

For  it  is  a  rule  in  the  Book  of  Etiquette  to  take 
a  girl  out  in  a  taxi  and  to  a  Cabaret,  and  the  young 

[30] 


THE    PRICE 

lord  of  the  house,  it  would  seem,  had  the  Blue  Blood 
in  him,  and  he  knew  this  by  instinct. 

And  here  is  where  I  need  some  French  phrase 
the  most.  I  need  it  because  it  must  be  such  as  few 
could  understand.  I  need  it  to  act  as  a  moral  shock- 
absorber. 

For  Lillian,  the  sweater-girl,  paid  her  toll  to  So- 
ciety. She  died  at  the  Free  Maternity  Hospital  in 
child-birth. 


[31] 


The  Christmas  Gift 

OVERLOOKING  the  two  dwellings  was  the  great 
Richards  plant,  —  the  chain  of  factory  build- 
ings and  the  adjoining  town  of  tenements,  —  all 
the  company's.  For  miles  around  nobody  owned  an 
inch  of  land  but  the  Richards  plant,  the  only  excep- 
tion being  the  Davis  lot.  The  little  house  of  the  Da- 
vises  stood  like  a  rural  wreck  and  literally  in  the  shade 
of  the  magnificent,  up-to-date  mansion  of  the  Rich- 
ards'. Why  old  Richards  had  spared  the  Davis  lot 
when  he  had  monopolized  the  vicinity  of  his  factories 
was  part  of  the  local  mystery  surrounding  the  pecu- 
liar friendship  between  the  multi-millionaire  and  his 
laborer.  It  has  been  often  remarked  that  the  only 
reason  to  account  for  Davis'  dying  a  poor  workman, 
in  spite  of  his  unmistakable  relation  to  his  employer, 
was  his  stubborn  nature  Only  once  was  he  assisted 
materially  by  his  rich  friend,  and  that  was  on  his 
dying  bed.  The  people  of  the  tenements  saw  the  Rich- 
ards' limousine  bring  a  great  specialist  from  the  city, 
then  a  nurse  and  medicines.  And  only  once  again  had 
the  doctor  visited  the  place,  the  second  time  being 
when  old  Richards  was  stricken  one  summer  day,  soon 
after  his  friend's  death. 

In  the  children  and  wives,  the  friendship  was 
superficially  continued.    Mazie  Davis  worked  in  the 

[33] 


THE    CHRISTMAS   GIFT 

office  of  young  Richards,  and  he  nodded  to  her  morn- 
ings as  he  entered.  Tom  Davis,  too,  had  it  steady  in 
the  shops.  On  the  other  hand,  the  old  Mrs.  Richards 
did  her  duty  to  their  neighbors.  She  greeted  most 
kindly  Mrs.  Davis  in  church,  and  at  her  semi-annual 
distributions  of  candy  in  the  settlement  school,  she 
especially  favored  little  Eliza  Davis. 

When  the  young  Richards  married,  and  his  wife 
came  to  the  house  of  Richards,  and  she  thought  it  her 
duty  to  indulge  in  all  the  family  traditions,  she  nat- 
urally was  affected  by  the  one  regarding  friendship 
with  their  immediate  neighbors.  To  her,  however, 
this  traditional  bond  was  more  a  duty  than  a  natural 
impulse.  It  smacked  of  patronizing  rather  than 
friendship.  This  she  betrayed  by  her  flaunting  eager- 
ness to  show  her  kindness  towards  her  poor  neighbors. 
She  even  visited  old  Mrs.  Davis  occasionally,  and 
spoke  to  her  most  kindly  of  her  children. 

And  the  course  of  nature  being  alike  in  poor  and 
rich,  Tom  Davis,  too,  was  married.  Mrs.  Richards, 
Jr.,  visited  the  bride  and  spoke  to  her  very  sweetly. 
But  the  family  of  Davis  lost  their  principal  pay  en- 
velope in  the  marriage  of  Tom.  Now,  their  only  in- 
come was  Mazie's  pay,  which  was  not  enough  for  the 
support  of  the  old  mother  and  little  Eliza,  who  was 
yet  at  school.  Tom  offered  to  let  part  of  his  wages 
go  to  its  old  purpose,  but  his  mother  refused  this, 
well  knowing  his  own  needs  as  a  husband.  Instead, 
they  decided  that  Eliza  should  go  to  work.  They 
knew  that  the  "office"  would  not  employ  girls  of 

[34] 


THE    CHRISTMAS   GIFT 

Eliza's  age  because  of  the  child  labor  law;  but  they 
hoped  that  in  their  case  Richards  would  make  an  ex- 
ception. 

Accordingly,  the  next  morning  Eliza  stayed  out 
of  school,  and  was  led  by  her  mother  to  the  office  of 
the  Richards  plant.  Richards,  Jr.,  received  the  old 
woman  most  cordially,  and  offered  her  a  chair ;  but  he 
could  not  be  persuaded  to  employ  her  little  girl. 
1 1  Her  place  is  in  school, ' '  he  said  firmly.  ' '  Why,  she 's 
yet  a  child"  —  smiling  kindly  at  Eliza.  "Mrs.  Davis, 
I  would  advise  you  to  continue  her  education.  You 
mustn  't  rob  the  opportunities  of  the  child.  I  'm  sorry, 
but  I  cannot  employ  her.  It's  against  the  law." 

So  Eliza  went  back  to  school.  But  still  Mrs. 
Davis  found  it  difficult  to  manage  the  household,  and 
at  the  first  occasion  she  spoke  to  Mrs.  Richards  about 
it.  Mrs.  Richards  replied  in  her  usual  friendly  way, 
but  upon  hearing  what  was  desired  of  her,  she  even 
reprimanded  Mrs.  Davis  for  such  designs  upon  her 
own  child  —  a  mere  schoolgirl.  She  absolutely  re- 
fused to  influence  her  son  to  employ  Eliza.  Mrs.  Da- 
vis felt  very  guilty  after  this  interview,  and  the  plan 
was  given  up. 

That  November  was  a  deluge  of  rain,  but  Decem- 
ber showed  winter  in  all  its  ferocity.  There  was  a 
scarcity  in  coal,  and  everything  else  was  soaring  high. 
The  little  family  often  remembered  what  help  Eliza's 
pay  might  have  brought  them,  but  they  let  no  word 
fall  on  the  subject.  Since  her  talk  with  Mrs.  Richards 
Mrs.  Davis  was  pained  to  think  of  it,  and  the  others 

[35] 


THE   CHRISTMAS   GIFT 

avoided  reference  to  it.  She  grew  fonder  of  Eliza, 
and  sadder,  and  more  thoughtful.  Mazie  grew  un- 
easy over  her  mother's  health,  and  for  nights  she  lay 
with  open  eyes,  listening  to  sudden  groans  from  her 
mother.  Once,  when  Mrs.  Davis  was  bending  over 
the  sleeping  Eliza,  Mazie  heard  her  mutter  through 
her  tears:  "Forgive  me,  child.  I'll  never,  never  again 
send  you  to  work  —  never!" 

But  active  Mrs.  Richards,  Jr.,  could  not  know  the 
torments  of  a  mother.  When  her  husband  once  men- 
tioned to  her  by  accident  how  he  had  refused  em- 
ployment to  little  Eliza  Davis,  it  manifestly  hurt  her 
sweet  disposition.  "Why,  my  dear,"  she  said  in  her 
comely  reproach,  "how  could  you?  Perhaps  they 
need  her  pay,  dear.  And — your  fathers  were  such 
friends  ..." 

Then,  most  wisely,  she  did  not  press  the  matter 
for  a  while. 


Christmas  eve  a  party  of  friends  were  enter- 
tained at  the  mansion.  But  in  the  morning  the  en- 
tire party  —  including  the  Richards  —  were  to  go  to 
a  neighboring  residence  of  one  of  the  guests  for  the 
Christmas  dinner.  There  was  laughter  and  shouting 
as  the  guests  settled  in  their  automobiles  in  front  of 
the  mansion,  and  Mrs.  Richards,  Jr.,  was  the  merri- 
est. Her  husband  was  wrapping  her  little  feet  in  a 
bear's  skin,  and  was  about  to  order  the  chauffeur  to 
start,  when  she  suddenly  remembered  something.  "0, 

[36] 


THE   CHRISTMAS   GIFT 

dear,"  she  exclaimed,  "I  must  go  into  the  Davises. 
I  must — you  know!" 

On  that  account  the  entire  row  of  limousines 
halted.  Richards  noticed  with  satisfaction  how  some 
of  his  guests  commented  on  his  wife's  democracy; 
and  she  herself  was  conscious  of  their  eyes  following 
her  down  the  untrodden  snow  to  the  Davis  home. 
1  'Good  morning — and  merry  Christmas  to  you  all!" 
she  cried  as  soon  as  she  opened  the  door.  She  stood 
inside,  a  bundle  of  fur,  and  a  cute  little  face  all  fresh 
with  the  glow  of  the  frost. 

The  old  Mrs.  Davis  was  confused  with  the  visit. 
So  were  her  children.  "Merry  Chris 'mas  to  you,  Mrs. 
Richards, ' '  she  said.  ' '  Sit  down,  please  —  sit  down. ' ' 

' '  No,  thank  you.  Very  kind  of  you,  Mrs.  Davis, ' ' 
replied  Mrs.  Richards,  "but  I  have  no  time.  They're 
all  waiting  for  me.  I  just  dropped  in  to  make  little 
Eliza  a  Christmas  present." 

Little  Eliza's  heart  jumped  with  expectancy  as 
she  heard  this,  and  unconsciously  she  moved  nearer 
the  guest.  Her  older  sister,  too,  was  expecting  that 
their  neighbor  would  draw  out  some  beautiful  toy 
from  underneath  her  furs.  But  their  mother  was 

short  of  breath  for  the  instant.  "A  present 1" 

she  gasped. 

"Yes,  a  present,"  replied  the  radiant  Mrs.  Rich- 
ards sweetly.  "It's  from  my  husband.  He  said  that 
little  Eliza  may  come  to  work  to-morrow." 


[37] 


The  Life  of  the  Dead 

FOUR  children  had   Stasha  borne  her  husband 
Franuk;  but  only  their  youngest,  Petrush,  sur- 
vived two  harvests.     He  was  a  beautiful  child, 
and  the  treasure  of  their  life.     Stasha  watched  anx- 
iously over  him,  and  Franuk  was  even  more  fond  of 
him  than  of  his  cows,  horse  and  land. 

When  his  son  was  born,  Franuk  was  not  in  the 
house.  The  same  morning  he  heard  the  lowing  of  his 
red  cow,  which  he  knew  "was  coming."  He  ran,  wak- 
ened a  neighbor,  and  sent  her  to  his  wife ;  and  he  him- 
self returned  to  his  cow.  Till  sunrise  he  remained  in 
her  litter  of  hay,  giving  succor  to  the  calving  cow 
in  the  pangs  of  her  labor.  By  that  time  fire  had  ap- 
peared in  the  little  windows  of  the  village  huts.  The 
peasants  are  light  sleepers ;  all  were  awakened  by  the 
birth  throes  of  Stasha  and  the  bleating  of  the  cow. 
The  women  crowded  into  the  little  straw-thatched 
house,  while  the  men  came  to  the  barn,  offering  what 
help  they  could  to  Franuk. 

With  sunrise  Franuk,  his  hands  stained  elbow- 
high  with  blood,  entered  his  house.  The  old  village 
midwife  met  him  in  the  door.  "Babba,"  he  said, 
"my  red  cow  is  safe,  but  a  beautiful  heifer  was  born 
dead." 

"May  this  be  an  offering  for  your  own  kin," 
[39] 


THE   LIFE    OF   THE    DEAD 

replied   the   old   peasant.     "For   a   child,    a   beau- 
tiful boy,  was  born  to  you  just  now." 

"And  my  wife?"  queried  Franuk.  He  looked 
over  the  heads  of  the  women  to  his  wife's  bed. 

"She  is  well,"  replied  the  woman.  "Ay,  even 
as  healthy  as  your  cow." 

Franuk  was  satisfied.  He  did  not  go  near  his 
wife;  it  was  broad  day,  and  the  sowing  season.  He 
yoked  his  horse  to  the  plow  and  marched  to  field,  car- 
rying the  plow  above  the  ground.  All  the  men  and 
women  had  gone  to  field.  But  the  old  midwife  did  not 
go  that  day.  She  watched  over  the  confined  woman, 
and  did  the  housework  in  her  stead. 

At  noon  Franuk  came  for  dinner.  He  first  en- 
tered the  barn  and  paid  his  respects  to  the  sick  cow. 
Then  he  looked  around  the  yard.  Everything  had 
been  attended  to  by  the  old  midwife.  The  village 
shepherd  had  come  for  the  cattle  as  usual ;  the  swine 
and  chickens  were  fed ;  the  yard  swept  clean.  In  the 
house  the  aged  nurse  had  set  the  table  for  Franuk 
with  a  bowl  of  steaming  potatoes  and  a  loaf  of  corn- 
bread. 

He  entered.  At  a  glance  he  took  in  the  perfect 
order  of  the  room  and  bowl  of  potatoes.  His  wife's 
face  brightened.  He  knelt  beside  her  bed.  She  smiled 
happily,  raised  the  heavy,  cotton-stuffed  cover  and 
showed  him  his  child  at  her  breast.  He  lifted  a  cal- 
lous, slime-covered  hand,  made  with  it  the  sign  of  the 
cross  on  his  breast,  and  brought  his  moustache  to  the 
infant's  face. 

[40] 


THE    LIFE    OF   THE    DEAD 

His  wife  smiled,  folded  her  bare  arm  over  his 
sun-coppered  neck,  and  weighed  his  head  down,  close 
to  the  bed. 

Henceforth  Stasha  lived  only  for  her  Petrushek. 
She  had  christened  him  early,  and  told  the  priest  of 
the  heifer  which  was  born  dead,  it  seemed,  that  her 
boy  might  live.  But  to  further  guard  her  child  from 
evil,  she  yielded  to  all  the  superstitions  of  the  peas- 
antry. She  clad  Petrushek  in  nothing  but  pure  white 
linen  until  his  seventh  birthday,  and  until  that  age 
cut  not  a  hair  from  his  head.  Indeed,  he  was  a  re- 
markable sight  to  a  chance  passer-by  through  the 
village,  —  a  beautiful  peasant-child  clad  in  pure  white 
linen,  and  with  flaxen  curls  flying  in  the  breeze. 

Franuk  evinced  no  such  concern  over  his  son; 
yet,  he  was  no  less  fond  of  him.  When  he  plowed  he 
would  look  beyond  the  horizon,  and  see  the  vision  of 
his  Petrushek  walking  in  the  fresh  furrows  after  the 
plow.  When  he  sowed,  he  prayed  that  the  field  yield 
abundance  to  afford  purchase  of  another  piece 
of  land  for  his  son's  sake.  And  when  harvesting,  Fra- 
nuk looked  into  the  future  and  beheld  his  son,  a  stal- 
wart youth,  joyously  reaping  in  the  fields  beside  him. 
Such  should  be  the  visions  of  every  true  man  of  the 
earth. 


And  Petrush  grew  in  the  companionship  of  care 
and  nature  to  fulfil  his  parents'  dreams.  At  the  vil- 
lage school  he  learned  enough  literature  for  a  peasant, 

[41] 


THE    LIFE    OF    THE    DEAD 

and  took  himself  early  to  the  soil.  He  was  hardly 
eighteen  when  he  had  earned  himself  esteem  in  the 
village.  Every  day  some  neighbor  would  say  to  Fra- 
nuk:  "Let  your  son  marry  my  daughter.  I  will  give 
her  so  much  land  in  dowry."  But  Franuk  would  re- 
ply: "My  son  will  choose  his  own  wife.  He  is  man 
enough  for  that."  And  Franuk  said  that,  in  truth, 
because  he  thought  no  girl  in  the  village  worthy  of 
his  son. 

And  the  girls  sought  Stasha's  favor  for  her  son's 
sake.  But  she,  too,  never  encouraged  any  one.  Pe- 
trush  himself  seemed  not  concerned  with  girls  at  all. 
When  he  was  in  his  twentieth  year,  it  was  breathed  to 
his  parents  that  he  had  been  seen  paying  attention  to 
Stephan  the  Blacksmith's  daughter;  but  they  made 
nothing  of  it.  An  artisan  among  the  Russian-Polish 
peasants  is  usually  the  poorest  in  the  community.  Ste- 
phan owned  no  land;  that  was  why  he  forged  horse- 
shoes for  the  village.  Franuk  and  his  wife  believed 
that  their  son  was  wise  enough  not  to  marry  a  girl 
who  could  not  bring  land  with  her. 

Petrush  was  nearing  the  age  of  military  service. 
His  mother  said  to  him:  "My  son,  marry  before  you 
go  into  service,  and  you  will  have  a  wife  and  child 
to  greet  you  when  you  return."  But  he  answered 
no,  he  would  marry  after  he  had  served  the  Czar. 
Franuk  grunted  approvingly  to  this,  and  Stasha  said 
no  more. 

It  was  the  same  day  that  their  country  entered 
into  war.  The  news,  however,  did  not  reach  them  un- 

[42] 


THE    LIFE    OF    THE    DEAD 

til  the  next  day.  A  pedlar-Jew  brought  it.  The  peas- 
ants left  their  fields  to  hear  it  from  the  Jew  with 
their  own  ears.  Little  was  done  on  the  fields  that 
day.  At  night  the  Starshina,  or  village  head,  was 
called  to  the  nearest  government  office.  He  returned 
at  noon  the  following  day,  and  the  entire  population 
awaited  him  on  the  road.  He  brought  warrants  for 
all  the  serviceable  men  in  the  village.  Among  these 
Petrush,  son  of  the  husbandman  Franuk,  was  called 
upon  to  serve  his  country  and  the  Czar  of  all  the 
Eussias. 

Stasha's  heart  was  heavy.  When  her  son  was 
handed  the  papers  she  burst  into  tears.  "No!  No!" 
she  cried,  "I  won't  let  him  go!  I  won't  let  my  Pe- 
trushek  go ! "  She  clung  to  him,  and  was  sobbing  on 
his  young  breast.  But  Franuk  stood  pale  and  stern. 
"Woman,  let  him  go,"  he  growled.  "Let  him  do  his 
duty. ' '  Stasha  stepped  back.  Her  husband 's  word  is 
a  final  commandment  to  a  peasant  woman. 

That  day  nobody  went  afield,  and  that  night  no- 
body in  the  village  slept.  The  reservists  were  boister- 
ous and  carelessly  hilarious.  The  mothers  and  wives 
wept  at  the  lime-hearths.  The  older  men  sat  in  groups 
puffing  at  their  pipes,  and  speaking  gravely.  Youth 
suddenly  felt  free  and  reckless.  The  girls  dressed  in 
their  best,  and  unblushingly  rambled  about  hanging 
on  the  arms  of  the  conscripts.  Fond  words  were 
spoken  between  boys  and  girls  which  otherwise  might 
never  have  been  said.  Girlish  giggles  resounded  from 
the  neighboring  woods,  the  barns  and  hay-stacks. 

[43] 


THE    LIFE    OP   THE    DEAD 

The  young  peasants  suddenly  decided  which  girls  they 
loved,  and  swore  their  love  to  them.  The  girls  for 
once  knew  for  whom  on  the  battlefield  their  hearts 
would  languish. 

In  the  morning  the  entire  population  escorted 
the  recruits  a  distance  from  the  village.  The  parting 
on  the  road  was  a  scene  indescribable.  Mothers  weep- 
ing, young  and  old  kissing,  and  the  recruits  them- 
selves steadfastly  silent  and  smiling.  Suddenly  a 
girl  would  reel  into  a  soldier's  arms,  and  nestle  to  his 
breast.  "What,  is  this  your  choice,  my  son?"  the 
mother  asked.  "Yes,  mother,"  the  soldier  replied. 
"And  please,  mother,  take  good  care  of  her  for  me." 

To  town  most  of  the  conscripts  were  accompanied 
by  their  parents  and  wives.  There  was  a  procession 
of  them  in  farmer  carts  on  the  highway  winding  in 
from  all  the  villages.  In  the  district  town  were  gath- 
ered men  from  all  the  surrounding  country  to  be 
marched  to  the  government  town.  All  day  long  the 
parents  and  lovers  shadowed  the  departing  about 
town,  fondling  them.  But  the  men  were  mostly  ner- 
vous and  drunk.  Early  the  next  morning  they  were 
mustered  in  a  column,  and  could  be  followed  no 
longer. 

Franuk  and  Stasha  had  both  accompanied  their  son 
to  the  county  town.  Franuk  had  not  uttered  a  word 
since  they  had  started  out  from  home.  Stasha  sat  in 
the  cart  weeping  on  Petrush's  shoulder,  while  her 
husband  trotted  alongside  the  horse  in  silence.  When 
it  came  to  final  parting,  Stasha  clung  to  her  son  and 

[44] 


THE    LIFE    OF    THE    DEAD 

would  not  let  go  of  him.  But  Franuk  tore  her  away. 
Now  they  were  standing,  with  other  parents,  watching 
for  a  last  glance  at  their  beloved.  "Ah,  Petrushek 
mine!  Son  of  mine!"  Stasha  kept  howling  like  a 
wounded  she-wolf. 

"Woman,  will  you  stop  that!"  Franuk  suddenly 
snarled.  For  just  then  he  saw  Petrush  approaching. 
The  boy  was  flushed  with  the  excitement,  and  looked 
the  manliest  in  line. 

"Petrush!"  Stasha  exclaimed,  and  darted  for- 
ward. But  Franuk 's  paw  closed  over  her  mouth,  cov- 
ered her  face,  and  thrust  her  backwards.  When  she 
regained  her  balance  Petrush  was  gone.  A  crowd  like 
her  stood  in  the  cloud  of  dust  that  the  army  left  be- 
hind ;  but  Stasha  could  see  nothing  except  the  vanish- 
ing heels  of  the  soldiers.  "Ah  —  Petrushek  mine! 
Darling  mine !  Ah-ah-ah ! ' ' 

Franuk,  rigid,  as  if  hewn  from  stone,  stared  after 
the  column  until  it  had  disappeared.  The  mouthpiece 
of  his  cold  pipe  snapped  between  his  teeth,  and  still 
he  held  it  there.  At  last  he  moved.  "Woman,  get 
thee  into  the  vozsh,"  he  commanded  his  wife.  She 
stepped  on  the  wheel,  and  rolled  upon  the  hay  in  the 
cart.  He  hopped  on  the  side,  his  feet,  strapped  tight 
in  shoes  of  birch-bark,  dangling  over  the  forewheel. 
They  fell  in  line  with  a  procession  of  carts  pulling 
now  out  of  town,  the  horses  trotting  like  mourners. 
Some  of  these  vehicles  were  driven  by  women,  the  hus- 
bands having  gone  to  war.  All  the  way  Stasha  kept 

[45] 


THE    LIFE    OF    THE    DEAD 

rocking  in  her  seat,  and  lamenting:  "Ah  —  milei  moi ! 
Ah  —  darling  mine ! ' ' 


Stasha  became  a  tearful  old  peasant  woman. 
Franuk  retained  his  vacant  stare  and  iron  silence. 
But  one  day  there  came  to  them  Hanna,  the  black- 
smith's daughter,  and  sat  down  on  their  stoop,  cry- 
ing. 

"What  news  have  you  from  Petrush?"  she  asked. 

"Why,  what  affairs  have  you  with  my  son?" 
Stasha  demanded. 

"He  is  my  husband,"  Hanna  blurted  out,  in 
tears. 

"Your  husband!"  screamed  Stasha,  and  all  the 
bitterness  of  her  heart  rose  to  her  lips.  "Your  hus- 
band, you  say?  When  did  my  son  ever  marry  you, 
you  wench?  What  priest  has  performed  the  cere- 
mony, eh?  Away  with  you,  you  impudent  liar!" 

"But  I  swear  to  you,  he  is  my  husband !"  the  girl 
cried,  and  fell  to  her  knees  before  Stasha.  "I  swear, 
for  I  bear  his  child  under  my  breast!" 

"What!"  shrieked  Stasha.  "Away  from  here, 
you  harlot !  Do  you  think  you  will  make  me  believe 
what  you  say?  Enough  men  have  you  been  sport- 
ing with  over  the  fields.  Go  to  him  whose  child  it  is." 

"Holy  Maria!"  wept  the  girl,  and  covered  her 
face  in  shame. 

"Pashol!  —  Off  with  you!"  pcreeched  Stasha, 
[46] 


THE    LIFE    OF    THE    DEAD 

grasping  a  spade.     "Run,  you  daughter  of  a  jade, 
or  1 11  break  your  head !    Off,  you  slut ! ' ' 

Franuk  had  been  standing  motionless.  Now  he 
wrenched  the  spade  from  his  wife's  hand,  and  thrust 
her  into  the  house  like  a  child.  "Pah!"  he  spat  at 
the  girl,  and  entered. 

Stasha  and  Franuk  received  letters  from  their 
son,  and  the  old  village  school-teacher  read  to  them 
what  Petrush  wrote.  But  in  each  letter  the  boy 
begged  his  parents  to  treat  Hanna,  the  blacksmith's, 
as  their  own  daughter.  He  would  marry  her,  he  wrote, 
as  soon  as  the  war  would  be  over.  At  this  Stasha 
gnashed  her  teeth,  and  Franuk  spat.  Still,  they 
craved  to  listen  even  to  that.  For  it  came  from  their 
son. 

To  their  chagrin,  the  village  seemed  to  sympa- 
thize with  the  girl.  There  appeared  to  be  many  such 
unmarried  wives  in  the  villages,  and  untrue  to  all 
traditions,  they  were  not  regarded  with  contempt. 
But  their  case,  the  two  peasants  convinced  themselves, 
was  exceptional.  Even  though  their  son  had  written 
them  corroborating  the  girl's  story;  still  they  could 
not  consent  to  the  girl  and  her  station.  They  could 
not  see  it  in  any  other  light  but  that  the  girl  had  se- 
duced their  son. 

And,  in  time,  joyous  tidings  reached  them  about 
their  Petrush.  The  school-master  read  in  the  news- 
papers that  their  son  had  been  awarded  a  cross  for 
bravery.  Soon  after,  Petrush  himself  related  his  he- 
roic adventure  to  them  in  a  letter. 

[47] 


THE   LIFE    OF    THE    DEAD 

Then  long  weeks  passed  and  no  word  from  their 
son.  But  one  morning  they  received  a  packet  from  a 
government  official.  This  they  took  unopened  to  the 
school-master.  It  contained  a  cross  and  a  government 
notice.  Petrush  was  dead.  .  .  . 

They  lost  all  sense  of  time.  Stasha  was  almost 
blind  from  weeping,  and  in  Franuk's  rigid  brow 
there  appeared  a  droop.  Their  field  was  not  hoed ;  the 
yard  looked  like  a  pigsty. 

But  nature  goes  her  way.  What  has  been  sown 
will  bloom  in  season.  The  cry  went  through  the 
village,  "Hanna  the  Blacksmith's  is  dying  in  birth!" 
The  priest  from  the  nearby  parish  was  hurriedly 
brought  to  her  for  confession.  The  girl 's  shrieks  rang 
through  the  air,  stirred  the  entire  village.  In  their 
little  house  Stasha  and  her  husband  heard  it.  Stasha 
stopped  weeping,  and  listened.  Franuk  sat  mute. 

Presently  the  wooden  bolt  rattled,  and  the  door 
was  thrown  open.  An  old  woman  stood  on  the  thresh- 
old. "Stasha,"  she  cried,  ''go  and  forgive  the  girl, 
or  she'll  die.  The  father  priest  has  sent  me  for  you. 
Come,  in  the  name  of  God!" 

Stasha  started  up  in  her  seat,  and  sank  back.  Fra- 
nuk did  not  move  a  muscle.  ' '  Pah ! ' '  spat  the  woman ; 
and  she  fled  from  them. 

The  door  remained  ajar.  A  crowd  had  gathered 
around  their  yard,  shouting  and  threatening. 

Old  Ivan,  sage  of  the  village,  came  hobbling  along 
on  his  stick.  "Why  don't  you  forgive  the  maiden?" 
he  said,  raising  and  lowering  his  shaggy  brows  as  he 

[48] 


THE   LIFE    OF    THE    DEAD 

spoke.  "Because  of  your  wayward  son  she  is  dying. 
That  you  may  have  a  namesake,  she  suffers ! ' ' 

Stasha  moved.    She  was  watching  her  husband. 

"No!"  snarled  Franuk. 

The  sage  shook  his  stick  in  fury.  "You  bull!" 
he  threatened,  "her  blood  shall  be  upon  your  head. 
Even  your  own  son  will  curse  you  from  his  grave ! ' ' 

He  trod  away  leaning  heavily  on  his  cane,  and 
slammed  the  door  after  him. 

Stasha  groaned  aloud.     She  listened. 

"Franuk!"  she  said  at  last. 

Franuk  did  not  move. 

"Fran !"  she  implored. 

He  kept  mute. 

' '  Let  us  go  to  her, ' '  she  begged. 

She  crawled  over  to  him,  and  laid  her  bony  hands 
on  his  shoulder.  Her  tears  trickled  down  upon  his 
gray  head. 

"Hush! "he  muttered. 

"For  Petrushe's  sake,  —  Fran!  It  is  his  child. 
.  .  .  It  shall  be  our  own  child.  .  .  .  Please!" 

"Woman!" 

He  scowled  at  her  angrily,  and  pushed  her  off. 
He  had  stirred.  But  he  did  not  resume  his  obdurate 
position.  Suddenly  he  fell  on  one  knee  and  made 
the  sign  of  the  cross. 

"Fra-a-nuk!"  Stasha  coaxed  him. 

He  glared  at  his  wife: 

' '  You  fool !    I  'm  praying  for  her ! ' ' 

[49] 


THE    LIFE    OF    THE    DEAD 

On  the  street  the  villagers  cheered  Stasha  and 
Franuk,  as  if  their  own  lives  were  being  saved.  As 
soon  as  they  appeared  on  the  threshold,  the  women 
said  afterwards,  it  went  better  with  the  girl.  Franuk 
at  once  told  the  priest  that  he  would  take  Hanna  and 
her  child  to  his  estate,  that  the  child  should  be  to 
him  what  his  son  had  been.  Stasha  —  the  women  bore 
witness  —  was  the  first  one  to  handle  the  beautiful 
baby  boy.  She  kissed  him  with  as  much  joy  as  she 
had  kissed  for  the  first  time  her  own  Petrushek,  when 
he  was  born. 


[50J 


Something  to  Eat 

HE  young  man  slowly  swung  the  massive  door  of 
1    the  employment  office,  and  came  down  the  stone 

stairs.  On  reaching  the  sidewalk,  he  passed  his 
hand  over  his  haggard  eyes,  and  leaned  against  the 
wall. 

A  grunting  little  man  shuffled  close  by,  spat 
across  the  sidewalk  with  evident  pleasure,  and  came 
to  a  standstill,  observing  the  hungry  youth.  They 
were  standing  directly  under  the  big,  gold-lettered 
sign,  "Employment  Bureau." 

"Want  a  job?"  the  little  man  asked. 

"Yes,"  faltered  the  youth,  and  stared  at  the 
stranger. 

But  he  could  not  see.  His  sight  was  blurred ;  his 
eyes  were  glazed  from  hunger.  He  could  only  distin- 
guish the  little  figure,  not  the  tattered  clothes,  out- 
worn shoes  and  wan,  unshaved  face.  A  little  flame  of 
hope  flickered  up  in  the  hungry  one. 

' '  Will  you  —  give  me  —  something  to  do  for  —  a 
meal?"  he  stammered. 

The  other  looked  wise.  "You're  dead  hungry," 
he  observed,  not  at  all  astonished. 

The  youth  groaned.  Something  in  his  stomach 
seemed  to  sink  and  there  was  a  bigger,  more  painful 
chasm  there.  He  pressed  his  cold  palm  against  his 
snapping  forehead. 

[51] 


SOMETHING   TO   EAT 

"And  you  ain't  got  a  thing  left  that  you  might 
sell,  either,"  continued  the  little  devil  deliberately, 
as  he  scrutinized  the  youth.  "All  you've  left  on  you 
is  a  pair  of  rotten  pants,  a  shirt  and  a  coat  that  no- 
body would  buy.  Even  your  socks  are  torn.  I  see 
your  bare  feet  through  the  holes  in  your  shoes. ' ' 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  the  boy. 

The  little  man  was  silent.  He  looked  at  the  big 
sign  over  their  heads,  and  his  little  eyes  traveled  to 
a  wide  show  window  of  a  restaurant  a  few  yards  away. 
Behind  the  glass  was  an  epicurean  display  that  could 
make  a  dyspeptic's  mouth  water. 

Suddenly  the  hungry  youth  became  delirious. 
"Please!"  he  muttered.  "Please  give  me  something 
—  to  eat.  I  'm  so  —  hungry ! ' ' 

He  grasped  the  lapel  of  the  little  tramp's  dilapi- 
dated coat,  and  could  not  steady  himself. 

The  tramp's  funny  little  face  twitched.  "I'm 
hungry  meself !"  he  whined.  He  tried  to  spit,  but 
his  mouth  was  dry. 

The  young  man  shivered.  "Oh!"  he  cried.  "I 
must  get  something  to  eat  —  I  must ! ' ' 

' '  Yes.  We  must  get  something  to  eat ;  we  must ! ' ' 
repeated  the  little  fellow. 

Both  stood  leaning  against  the  wall.  Then  the 
tramp  instinctively  shuddered;  a  policeman  was 
slowly  coming  in  their  direction.  The  young  man 
saw  nothing.  He  was  wiping  his  dry  lips  with  a  trem- 
bling hand. 

Suddenly  he  felt  a  pain  at  his  ear,  and  something 
[52] 


SOMETHING   TO    EAT 

struck  against  his  eye.  Dimly  he  conceived  the  little 
man  jumping  at  him  and  punching  him.  He  swayed 
and  fell.  .  .  . 

He  was  conscious  of  chaos  of  noise,  intermingled 
with  the  clanging  of  a  gong.  He  was  being  dragged 
by  the  collar  over  the  cold  asphalt,  then  he  was  swept 
up  and  dropped  on  a  wooden  surface.  He  felt  as  if  on 
the  deck  of  a  moving  ship.  A  gong  was  clanging  in- 
cessantly. 

An  indefinite  time  passed.  His  teeth  were  being 
pressed,  forced  apart.  Something  tingling  trickled 
down  his  throat.  He  gulped  at  it,  and  opened  his 
eyes. 

Over  him  were  bending  two  policemen,  one  with 
a  flask  in  his  hand.  A  tattered  little  man  beside  him, 
his  funny  little  face  all  mutilated  and  smeared  with 
blood,  yelped  out  with  joy,  upon  seeing  him  open  his 
eyes.  "  I  told  you !"  he  cried.  "  I  told  you  we  'd  get 
somethin'  to  eat!" 


[53] 


The  Pest 

THE  lobby  was  practically  deserted.  The  house 
was  a  typical  traveling-salesmen's  hostelry.  But 

on  Sunday  evenings  it  was  free  of  the  bustle 
caused  by  the  constant  revolving  of  the  door,  hurrying 
by  of  salesmen  with  sample  cases,  bell-hops'  cries. 
Traveling  men,  as  a  rule,  need  either  life  in  its  full 
swing  or  sleep,  of  which  they  run  short  in  their  pro- 
fession. Most  of  the  guests  were  either  snatching  a 
bit  of  rest  in  their  rooms,  or  away  at  some  gayer  place 
in  town. 

In  the  farthest  corner,  hard  by  the  telephone 
desk,  sat  a  lonely  group  of  guests.  They  were  smok- 
ing their  cigars,  legs  crossed,  and  chatting  leisurely, 
as  if  they  were  a  family  circle  and  not  a  hodgepodge 
of  selling-dogs,  thrown  together  for  the  first  time.  To- 
night their  conversation  lacked  life.  A  woman,  a  pet- 
ticoat seller,  was  amongst  them.  Under  the  circum- 
stances the  salesman's  ever-ready  stock  of  vivacious 
episodes  was  not  quite  the  proper  thing,  so  that  these 
people  who  could  entertain  a  buyer  at  any  time  of  the 
day,  suddenly  felt  a  gloomy  helplessness  threatening 
them.  Involuntarily  they  remembered  homes,  wives, 
and  others.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  one  of  the  group,  a  clean-cut  young 
man,  laughed  softly  to  himself,  emitting  a  curl  of 
smoke  from  his  cigar.  The  woman  looked  at  him  cu- 

[55] 


THE    PEST 

riously.  A  fat  little  garter-salesman  recrossed  his 
stubby  little  legs. 

"I  have  a  story,"  the  young  man  suggested,  "that 
I  have  never  told  before.  If  you  will  allow  me ' 

"Why,  yes;  please,"  the  woman  said. 

The  young  salesman  took  a  deep  puff  at  his  ci- 
gar, threw  his  head  back,  and  watching  the  smoke 
curl  upwards,  began: 

I  should  call  it  Pest,  I  think.  Whenever  I  hear 
the  word  Pest  I  can't  help  laughing. 

I  was  in  my  twenty-first  year  then.  I  had  never 
thought  much  of  girls,  but  I  knew  that  some  girls 
were  pests.  (I  had  probably  never  got  over  my  im- 
pression of  my  school  teachers.)  The  only  woman  I 
had  ever  really  spoken  to  was  my  mother.  And  my 
mother  is  the  sweetest  woman  on  earth.  I  held  that 
mothers  were  angels. 

Then  I  met  a  little  girl,  and  I  knew  at  once  that 
girls  may  be  angels,  too.  But  it  would  seem  that  girls 
also  may  be  pests.  That  little  angel  was  it  —  a  Pest ! 

I  didn't  know  it  immediately,  as  I  have  already 
told  you.  Friends,  however,  always  will  be  there  to 
spoil  your  pleasures.  I  had  a  school  chum : —  we  shall 
call  him  Jerry  Stevens,  for  the  present  —  and  he  was 
the  friend  in  my  case.  "You  are  in  love  with  the 
girl,"  he  said  to  me,  looking  straight  into  my  eyes. 
"I'm  ashamed  of  you,  Charles  Braddock!" 

' '  I  like  her, ' '  I  confessed. 

' '  The  first  time  you  met  her  ? " 
[56] 


THE    PEST 

"Yes." 

He  laughed.  "So  did  I  —  the  first  time.  But 
I  've  changed  my  mind  since.  Wait  till  you  know  her, 
Charlie  dear ! ' ' 

He  said  it  with  such  sarcasm  that  I  felt  slighted. 
I  protested : 

"She  is  good-looking." 

"Ye-e-s,"  mimicked  Jerry,  "and  she's  friendly, 
too,  I  suppose.  Stuck  on  you  the  first  time  she  pipes 
you.  Love  at  first  sight,  eh?  ...  Well,  I  don't  blame 
you,  though.  I  fell  for  it  myself  the  first  time  I  met 
her.  '  Why,  glad  to  know  you,  I  'm  sure, '  she  warbles. 
And  I  press  her  little  hand  like  a  shy  schoolboy." 

"But-    -"I  interrupted. 

"Wait!"  he  mocked.  "Then  she  looks  at  me 
with  her  baby-doll  eyes,  and  I  go  red  like  —  like  you 
went  to-day.  '0,  Mr.  Miller,'  she  coos  to  the  boob 
who  'd  introduced  me,  'please  give  Mr.  Stevens  your 
seat.  I  wish  to  get  better  acquainted  with  him.'  The 
guy  looks  at  me  like  a  murderer,  and  I  flop  into  his 
seat,  and  think  I'm  in  heaven." 

He  observed  me  whimsically,  expecting  me  to  ap- 
plaud his  burlesque.  But,  Lord,  how  could  I? 
"And,  my  young  friend  Charles,"  he  continued, 
shaking  his  finger  at  me,  "you  had  the  exact  experi- 
ence to-night.  I  watched  you. ' ' 

That  was  true.  But  her  spell  lay  too  heavily 
over  me.  I  persisted.  "What  is  her  name?"  I  asked. 

"  So !  You  haven 't  even  her  name  down.  Fine ! 
That's  exactly  how  she  struck  me  the  first  time. 

[57] 


THE    PEST 

Couldn't  think  of  the  name  for  the  life  o'  me.  Only 
the  sunshine  eyes,  and  the  kiss-me-kid  talk  I  couldn't 
forget.  She 's  a  great  pest,  she  is ! " 

I  was  shocked.    But  my  friend  continued. 

"  It 's  a  decent  name,  all  right.  But  don 't  you  look 
it  up  in  the  telephone  directory ;  there  are  too  many 
Kellys  there." 

"First  name?"  I  faltered. 

"Oh,  blushing  old  maids!"  he  jeered.  "It's  a 
sweet  name,  my  dear,  a  sweet  name ! ' ' 

"No  kiddin'!"  I  grumbled. 

"Lillian!"  he  suddenly  uttered  in  a  deep  bass. 

I  was  angry.  "It  doesn't  matter  for  my  purpose 
whether  you  like  her  or  not,"  I  uttered  firmly.  "I 
like  her." 

The  cynic  grinned  in  my  face.    "Wait  until  you 

know  her." 

• 

Presently  I  had  occasion  to  know  her.  After 
I  had  been  dreaming  about  her  four  and  one  half 
nights  in  succession  —  the  half  night  being  in  contin- 
uation of  a  night  I  could  not  sleep  from  thinking  of 
her  —  I  met  Miss  Lillian  Kelly  again.  It  happened 
while  I  was  rushing  in  the  subway  for  a  train  home, 
after  office  hours.  That  evening  I  was  late  for  supper. 

"Mr.  Braddock!"  she  gasped  in  delightful  sur- 
prise. 

"How  d'  y'  do,"  I  responded,  confused,  and  paid 
two  fares. 

"Isn't  it  lovely,"  she  chirped  to  me,  after  I  had 
[58] 


THE    PEST 

desperately  fought  in  the  crowd  to  provide  a  seat 
for  her,  and  more  desperately  still,  a  strap-hold  above 
it  for  myself.  "We  shall  meet  now  every  evening  on 
the  car.  I  work  in  the  Sumner  Building,  you  know. 
Really,  I  had  no  idea  your  office  was  so  near." 

I  found  no  words.  It  wasn't  exactly  honest  of 
me  to  have  her  believe  me  the  proprietor  of  an  office, 
when  in  fact  I  was  only  a  second-class  clerk,  but  all 
is  fair  in  war  and  love.  The  only  fear  I  had  was  that 
she  might  be  earning  more  than  I.  In  which  case  I 
could  not  hope. 

"We  may  have  met  before,"  I  suggested.  And 
I  really  thought  that  I  remembered  having  once  re- 
signed my  seat  to  a  girl  who  looked  as  sweet  as  she. 

"It's  possible,"  she  admitted.  "But  now  we 
must  meet  every  day,  Mr.  Braddock."  And  she  pro- 
nounced my  name  with  a  softness  that  gave  me  a 
thrill. 

So  I  escorted  her  to  her  house  —  which  was  out 
of  my  way.  Then  I  walked  home,  when  I  should 
have  ridden  on  a  car.  And  all  because  I  selfishly  kept 
on  thinking:  "That  girl  is  in  love  with  me." 

The  next  day  I  should  have  been  fired  at  the 
office  for  at  least  one  big  mistake  I  was  guilty  of. 
But  I  wasn't,  lucky  for  me.  I  needed  my  fourteen 
dollars  per  week  now  badly.  Alimony,  from  what 
I  hear,  should  be  the  greatest  modern  curse  upon  the 
shoulders  of  the  suffering  sons  of  Adam,  but  the  woo- 
ing of  Eve,  we  must  not  forget,  had  cost  him  a  rib. 
I  couldn't  exactly  afford  a  rib,  because  then  my  Eng- 

[59] 


THE   PEST 

lish-cut,  tight-fitting  suit  might  not  have  fitted  me  so 
well;  but,  nevertheless,  I  at  once  staked  everything 
on  the  ace  of  hearts. 

You  see,  I  use  this  rather  conventional  metaphor, 
because  I  soon  came  to  discover  that  I  was  in  a  game. 
For  bad  or  worse,  I  found  myself  facing  a  most  an- 
noying rival.  Annoying  because  he  seemed  to  be  an 
old  friend  of  hers,  annoying  because  he  was  finan- 
cially better  fortified  than  I,  and  annoying  because  — 
you  shall  know  presently. 

Of  course  I  wore  my  English-cut  suit  the  fol- 
lowing evening,  when  I  ventured  home  via  subway. 
Actually,  I  waited  a  few  miutes  at  the  entrance  of  the 
kiosk  before  the  rush  brought  to  me  Miss  Kelly.  She 
was  more  than  glad  to  see  me.  My  heart  leaped  high 
and  rested  ninety-nine  in  the  shade.  It  was  an  aw- 
fully nice  day,  wasn't  it?  I  thought  so,  too.  The 
paper  said  it  would  rain ;  what  did  I  think  of  the  pa- 
per? I  thought  that  a  paper  should  never  for  a  mo- 
ment inspire  in  a  sensible  person  belief  in  it.  But 
wasn't  it  crowded  on  the  platform? 

Indeed  it  was.  And  a  crowd  is  always  a  blind 
beast.  A  young  fellow,  also  in  an  English  suit,  sud- 
denly loomed  before  me  from  the  crowd  and  rushed 
upon  my  lady  fair.  An  awful  lump  rose  in  my  throat. 
She  was  very  happy  to  see  him.  But  haven 't  we  gen- 
tlemen ever  met  before?  I,  Mr.  Braddock,  must  meet 
her  best  friend,  Mr.  Spiess ;  she  was  sure  we  would  be 
great  friends. 

So  we  two  shook  hands,  when  we  should  have  pre- 
[60] 


THE   PEST 

ferred  to  kick  each  other.  He  smiled  an  ingratiating 
smile,  and  I  murmured  something  equally  hypocriti- 
cal. Then  we  glared  at  each  other,  and  vehemently 
fell  to  begging  our  mutual  friend,  Miss  Kelly,  to  allow 
us  to  escort  her  to  the  "Passing  Show  of  the  Cen- 
tury," which  she  had  just  mentioned  she  was  dying 
to  see. 

That  fellow  Spiess,  I  concluded  at  once,  was  a 
big  pest.  He  insisted  that  Miss  Kelly  allow  him  to 
buy  the  tickets,  because  she  had  promised  him  last 
time  he  had  taken  her  out  that  she  would  go  with 
him  to  a  show  sometime  again.  She  didn't  remember 
that,  but  thought  it  possible,  yet  not  binding.  At  any 
rate,  he  had  taken  her  out  before,  so  she  would  let  Mr. 
Braddock  arrange  the  little  theatre  party  this  time. 

I  almost  laughed  right  into  the  face  of  my  new 
acquaintance.  He  glared  at  me  over  the  top  of  her 
little  gray  hat,  which  for  all  the  world  looked  like  a 
battleship.  I  appreciated  his  feelings  and  stared  back 
at  him.  But  Miss  Kelly  stood  between  us  like  a 
charming  diplomatic  doctrine.  For  the  present,  how- 
ever, I  was  on  better  land  than  my  opponent. 

Suddenly  she  turned  her  sweet  torpedo  eyes  on 
me  more  lovingly.  "But  we  must  take  Mr.  Spiess 
along  with  us,"  she  said,  and  I  thought  that  I  heard 
the  respective  gentleman  chuckle  aloud. 

"Gladly,"  I  whined.  She  favored  me  with  a 
rapid  stare  of  appreciation.  But  my  enemy  must 
have  heard  my  whine.  He  cackled. 

And  let  me  remind  you  here,  my  friends,  that 
[61] 


THE   PEST 

there  is  no  sunshine  but  that  it  casts  a  shadow  in 
its  train.  I  was  to  buy  the  tickets,  do  the  honors,  and 
my  rival  seemed  to  do  all  the  suggesting  and  plan- 
ning. Well,  he  thought  that  we  should  get  orchestra 
seats,  not  first  balcony.  Then  I  had  better  buy  the 
tickets  early,  and  try  to  get  the  seats  not  too  near  the 
stage,  but  near  enough.  For,  don't  you  know,  it  spoils 
the  show  if  one  sees  the  rouge  on  the  actors '  faces. 

The  theatre  night  was  Saturday.  I  had  my  full 
pay  in  my  pocket  when  I  rang  the  bell  at  the  house 
of  Miss  Kelly.  She  didn't  invite  me  in,  instead,  she 
asked  me  to  wait  on  the  porch.  She  was  all  ready 
except  hat  and  coat.  In  a  minute  she  appeared, 
pleased  and  sprightly.  She  was  dressed  in  a  red  cape, 
a  pinkish  gown,  and  a  shapely  hat  to  match.  I  could 
have  snatched  her  in  my  arms  and  run  off  with  her, 
she  was  so  charming. 

But  again  my  perfect  day  ran  short.  That  pest 
of  a  Spiess  had  been  in  the  house  for  half  an  hour,  and 
came  out  after  her,  greeting  me  chummily.  Cha- 
grin and  jealousy  gnawed  at  my  heart.  Why,  oh,  why, 
hadn't  she  invited  me  into  the  house?  And  he  had 
been  there  before  me ! 

Naturally,  I  wore  my  English  suit,  quite  recently 
cleaned  and  pressed ;  but  my  rival  was  also  attired  in 
English  garb,  as  well  fitting  as  mine.  Ay,  and  the  ex- 
pensive scarf-pin  that  sparkled  under  his  chin  I  could 
never  afford ! 

He  bought  the  box  of  candy.  I  protested,  and 
[62] 


THE    PEST 

ate  as  little  of  it  as  I  could  do  without,  to  show  my 
real  taste  for  it.  After  the  show  I  promptly  led  the 
way  for  a  lunch.  Miss  Kelly  had  exquisite  manners, 
and  ordered  admirably.  She  ate  with  gusto,  chatting 
all  the  while  and  laughing  gaily.  Spiess  ate  rather  too 
heartily,  I  thought.  I,  for  my  part,  had  no  appetite, 
except  for  throwing  myself  at  the  fellow  and  choking 
him  to  death. 

He  whispered  to  me  that  he  would  pay  for  the 
supper,  and  I  discouraged  him  harshly.  He  grinned. 

The  matter  of  escorting  her  home  was  settled  by 
Miss  Kelly  herself.  We  both  parted  from  her  at  her 
door,  then  bade  each  other  a  friendly  "Good-night." 

On  my  way  home  my  spirits  were  low.  Upon  re- 
consideration, however,  I  found  myself  the  favorite. 
Somehow,  I  couldn't  help  believing  that  she  cared 
more  for  me  than  for  my  rival. 

We  met  again,  Miss  Kelly  and  myself.  But  al- 
ways, God  alone  knows  how,  the  pest  of  a  Spiess 
dropped  upon  us  to  mar  my  life.  To  be  sure,  I  found 
new  beauties  and  charms  in  her  every  time  I  saw  her. 
I  lived  now  on  nothing  else  but  dreams  about  her. 

At  our  first  meeting  following  the  theatre  party 
she  gave  me  a  little  surprise.  "Please  call  me  Lil- 
lian, ' '  she  said  to  me.  ' '  I  want  you  to  call  me  Lillian, 
not  Miss  Kelly." 

I  called  her  Lillian,  and  repeated  the  delicious 
name  on  every  possible  pretext.  But  here  again  the 
brute  of  a  rival  was  running  neck  in  neck  with  me. 

[63] 


THE   PEST 

He,  too,  was  calling  her  Lillian,  and  even  more  famil- 
iarly than  I.  I  had  gained  no  distinction. 

I  soon  grew  tired  of  being  haunted  by  a  rival, 
and  began  treating  him  rudely.  He,  I  must  confess, 
paid  me  in  my  own  coin,  with  interest.  Miss  Kelly 
had  to  be  forever  applying  her  wiles  to  keep  us  in 
peace. 

I  grew  bolder,  and  asked  her  why  that  fellow  was 
haunting  our  meetings.  She  regretted  it  mildly,  and 
begged  me  not  to  scorn  him.  The  poor  boy,  she  said, 
loved  her  madly.  He  followed  her  about  wherever 
she  went. 

Four  weeks  of  wooing  rendered  me  a  changed  per- 
son. I  lost  in  weight,  dressed  fastidiously,  and  com- 
mitted innumerable  mistakes  at  the  office.  I  was  ner- 
vous and  petulant.  My  meetings  with  Miss  Kelly 
grew  regular  and  by  appointment.  Still,  nine  times 
out  of  ten,  Spiess  crossed  our  path. 

The  matter  struck  me  as  abnormal.  How  could 
he  know  where  we  met,  or  when  we  met  ?  I  was  puz- 
zled. 

Yet,  this  one  solace  I  had.  The  girl  unmistakably 
was  paying  more  attention  to  me.  I  was  enraptured 
to  see  how  my  rival  was  tortured  by  my  advance- 
ment. 

But  one  day  I  made  a  discovery  that  stunned  me. 
At  each  of  my  appointments  with  her  she  had  ar- 
ranged, at  the  same  time  and  place,  a  meeting  with 
my  rival. 

And  I  made  another  discovery.  My  friend  Jerry 
[64] 


THE    PEST 

Stevens  knew  Spiess  intimately.  It  seemed  that 
Spiess  was  of  a  good  family,  a  law  student,  and  an 
old  admirer  of  Miss  Kelly.  On  this  occasion  Jerry 
took  another  malicious  fling  at  the  girl. 

"I  do  believe  she  likes  him,  too,"  he  said,  uncon- 
scious of  the  pain  it  gave  me.  ' ;  But  all  this  pest  of  a 
girl  does  is  keep  him  jealous,  red-hot,  all  the  time." 

"How?" 

"She  simply  gets  any  poor  sucker  that  don't 
know  her,  and  pretends  to  be  in  love  with  him,  and 
Spiess  and  the  other  slob  wrangle  over  her  like  two 
hens.  That's  how!  She's  good  and  beautiful,  isn't 
she?  But  she  certainly  likes  to  see  boys  break  their 
heads  over  her." 

Then  suddenly,  the  enigma  of  the  persistent  pres- 
ence of  my  rival  at  our  meetings  was  solved  in  my 
mind.  She  had  been  arranging  so !  Something  dear 
to  me  was  shattered,  broken.  I  shuddered.  Still,  I 
clung  to  a  slim  hope. 

' '  How  do  you  know  ? "  I  questioned. 

"I've  been  her  dupe  myself  —  once." 

I  realized  everything.  I  saw  her  duplicity  —  the 
blind  part  I  played  in  her  whimsical  love  affair.  I 
was  enraged. 

"She's  a  pest!"  I  exclaimed. 

I  thought  that  I  saw  a  glint  in  my  friend's  eye. 

The  following  appointment  with  her  I  didn't 
keep.  I  avoided  any  place  where  I  might  have  en- 
countered her.  Once  I  saw  her  in  the  subway,  but 
evaded  her,  unnoticed. 

[65] 


THE    PEST 

Still,  something  in  me  was  restless,  pining.  I 
was  sure  it  was  not  that  I  cared  for  the  girl.  I  hated 
her.  I  hated  all  girls !  And  she  was  a  vampire.  .  .  . 
She  had  tried  to  play  with  me,  was  playing  with  the 
feelings  of  another  man.  I  tried  all  kinds  of  diver- 
sions, but  could  not  sleep  at  night.  People  told  me  I 
looked  haggard. 

The  first  Saturday  night  after  this  terrible  dis- 
covery I  walked  around  the  city  with  Jerry.  It  waa 
closing  time;  people  were  streaming  out  of  the  cafes 
and  restaurants. 

Suddenly  my  friend  grasped  me  by  the  arm. 
"Good  God!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  didn't  think  Spiess 
was  as  weak  as  all  that." 

"Why?" 

"Look!" 

A  young  fellow,  dead  drunk  and  reeling,  was 
waving  his  arm  to  us.  It  was  Spiess.  His  English 
suit  was  all  soiled,  his  face  besmirched  with  mud.  I 
felt  a  thrill  of  joy  at  this  pitiable  sight  of  my  former 
rival. 

We  took  him  over  in  time  to  save  him  from  the 
hands  of  a  policeman.  He  greeted  Jerry  jovially,  and 
tried  to  kiss  him.  Stevens  strongly  resisted  this. 

The  sight  of  me  drove  Spiess  into  a  drunken  rage. 
"You  son  of  a  dog!"  he  cried  at  me,  "take  off  your 
coat  and  fight  like  a  man.  Fight,  I  say!" 

He  poised  his  fists  in  a  position  to  fight.  Stevens 
held  him  off  forcibly  from  jumping  at  me.  I  couldn't 
be  enraged  under  the  circumstances.  In  fact,  I  cau- 

[66] 


THE   PEST 

tiously  helped  to  tug  the  boy  towards  the  depot,  to 
take  him  home. 

Spiess  resisted,  and  cried  that  he  had  no  use  for 
life  any  longer.  He  mentioned  Lillian  Kelly,  and 
promptly  stopped  and  saluted  the  imaginary  vision 
of  her.  Then  he  suddenly  flew  at  me  and  dealt  me  a 
blow  in  the  face. 

I  was  now  wild  with  rage,  but  only  tried  to  keep 
him  away  from  me.  I  didn't  care  to  hit  back.  Stev- 
ens did  his  best  to  check  him.  But  he  tore  himself  at 
me,  calling  me  names,  and  demanding  that  I  fight  him. 
In  the  wrangle  our  hats  fell  on  the  sidewalk  and  were 
stepped  upon.  But  I  always  wear  a  soft  hat,  which 
was  easily  cleaned  after  the  mud  was  dried,  while 
Spiess  wore  a  derby,  as  behooves  a  student  of  the 
law.  His  hat  was  entirely  ruined. 

Finally,  we  calmed  him  somehow  and  brought 
him  to  his  shocked  parents  in  a  horrible  state.  Before 
we  got  rid  of  him,  he  repented  his  hostilities  towards 
me,  and  tried  to  kiss  me,  just  because  I  was  a  friend 
of  Miss  Kelly's. 

I  was  in  a  fever  that  night.  I  cursed  the  venom- 
ous witch  who  had  tried  to  play  with  me,  and  who 
had  ruined  that  fellow  Spiess.  "Pest!"  I  hissed  to 
myself. 

I  couldn't  stop  thinking  of  her.  .  .  . 

Early  in  the  morning,  Sunday,  Stevens  came  to 
me,  looking  resolute  and,  unlike  his  nature,  serious. 
He  told  me  that  he  understood  now  that  I  had  been 
the  latest  dupe  in  the  affair  between  that  pest  of  a  girl 

[67] 


THE    PEST 

and  her  victim  Spiess.  He  related  to  me  at  length  how 
he  had  served  the  same  purpose  once,  and  how  he 
awoke  one  morning  to  the  truth.  I  earnestly  told  him 
that  I  was  wide  awake  myself  now.  When  he  con- 
fided in  me  that  he  hated  Miss  Kelly,'!  told  him  that 
these  were  exactly  my  feelings  towards  her. 

"Then  let  us  go  at  once  and  put  the  boy  wise 
to  her,"  he  said. 

I  considered  this  awkward  at  first  and  did  not 
want  to  go.  But  after  some  thought  I  was  eager  to. 

We  found  the  Spiess  household  in  an  awful  up- 
roar on  account  of  the  incident  of  the  previous  night. 
The  afflicted  parents  greeted  us  friendly  and  thanked 
us  for  our  services.  The  mother  begged  us  to  tell  her 
if  her  boy  hadn't  fallen  in  with  bad  company.  Stev- 
ens jocosely  remarked  that  we  were  his  company,  and 
she  promptly  expressed  her  gladness  that  this  was 
the  case.  She  hoped  that  we  would  exert  our  good 
influence  upon  her  son. 

Spiess,  Jr.,  himself  was  in  bed,  dejected,  half 
alive.  He  had  been  lectured  all  morning  by  his 
father.  He  was  ashamed  to  raise  his  eyes  to  us. 

Stevens  immediately  settled  himself  on  the  edge 
of  the  bed,  and  proceeded  to  the  purpose  of  our  mis- 
sion. He  did  it  with  tact  and  caution.  The  boy  lis- 
tened with  a  pained  expression  on  his  face.  In  fact 
Jerry  did  his  part  so  artfully  that  a  stone  should  have 
been  made  to  understand  Miss  Kelly's  duplicity  and 
abominable  nature.  But  Spiess  only  sighed  and 
groaned. 

[68] 


THE   PEST 

< 

"She's  a  vampire !"  Stevens  wound  up. 

"A  snake !"  I  chimed  in. 

"A  pest!"  Spiess  muttered,  at  last. 

I  murmured  something  to  Stevens,  and  he  in- 
sisted that  Spiess  at  once  write  a  letter  to  Miss  Kelly, 
denouncing  her  treachery  and  exposing  his  knowl- 
edge of  it.  Spiess  writhed,  argued,  but  obeyed. 

I  was  very  careful  that  the  letter  reached  its 
destination  safely. 

Monday  morning  I  received  a  note  from  Miss 
Lillian  Kelly  that  I  might  see  her  after  work  in  the 
subway.  I  pocketed  the  letter  and  took  a  straight 
course  home  on  surface  cars.  Tuesday  she  called  me 
on  the  telephone  and  begged  me  to  call  at  her  house 
in  the  evening.  I  went  to  a  movie  after  supper. 
Wednesday  I  had  a  regular  day,  except  for  the  even- 
ing, when  I  suffered  a  great  surprise.  I  was  half 
through  with  my  supper,  when  my  mother  announced 
that  a  young  lady  was  at  the  door  wishing  to  see  me. 
My  good  mother  was  watching  my  face  searchingly. 
I  blushed. 

The  visitor  was  none  other  than  Miss  Kelly.  She 
was  charming  even  as  she  was  standing  there  before 
me,  pale  and  anxious.  I  asked  her  into  the  reception 
room  as  politely  as  I  could. 

She  found  no  ready,  sweet  talk  as  usual.  She 
was  evidently  excited.  I  was  very  cordial. 

Finally,  she  assumed  the  aggressive.  "You  are 
no  longer  any  friend  of  mine?"  she  asked  almost  in 
tears. 

[69] 


THE    PEST 

* 

"  Why- -er- -that  is  impossible,"  I  mumbled. 

"You've  tried  to  poison  my -my  friends  against 
me,"  she  continued. 

I  was  mute.    I  could  not  endure  her  gaze. 

"You  incited  my  best  friend,  Mr.  Spiess,  against 
me." 

"IV" 

I  didn't  say  that  because  I  wanted  her  to  doubt 
my  guilt. 

Tears  sprang  to  her  eyes.  ' '  Oh,  I  do  hope  it  is  not 
true!"  she  cried. 

I  was  sore  with  aversion.  "What  a  pest!"  I 
thought. 

She  was  sobbing  the  next  moment. 

I  faced  her  boldly,  and  exclaimed: 

"Yes,  —  I  want  you  to  know  it.  I  did  it  pur- 
posely!" 

She  stiffened,  and  pursed  her  little  lips.  Her  face 
was  against  mine.  I  could  feel  her  breath. 

"Oh!"  she  suddenly  shrieked,  and  fainted.  I 
caught  her  in  my  arms. 

For  a  second  I  held  her,  dazed.  Then  I  pressed 
her  to  my  breast,  and  there  I  was  kissing  her  —  kiss- 
ing her.  .  .  . 

My  mother  was  standing  in  the  doorway. 

What  a  pest! 

Since  that  scene  I  have  kissed  her  many,  many 
times.  She  is  my  wife  now.  Stevens,  I  found  out 
later,  had  visited  her  that  Sunday  evening  and  pro- 
posed to  her.  But  she  hadn't  fainted  in  his  arms. 

[70] 


Self-Justified 


HIS  Excellency  the  Governor  appeared  at  the 
State  House  later  than  usual.  He  held  a  morn- 
ing newspaper  in  his  hand  and  nodded  a  genial 
"Good  morning"  to  his  secretary,  who  hastened  to 
rise  at  his  entrance. 

A  committee  of  five  from  the  Manly  Defense 
League  also  rose  before  the  Chief  Executive  of  tl:e 
State.  They  had  come  to  make  their  final  appeal. 
Their  worried,  impatient  faces  lighted  up,  and  they 
sighed  with  relief. 

The  committee  was  composed  of  five  well-known 
radicals,  three  men  and  two  women.  The  chair  01  an 
of  the  committee,  James  Meyer,  a  middle-aged  man, 
with  a  lame  foot,  immediately  advanced  to  the  Gov- 
ernor. 

But  the  Governor  seemed  to  be  in  no  hurry.  ' '  Sit 
down,  please.  I  shall  be  right  with  you,"  he  said  cor- 
dially, and  resigned  himself  to  his  secretary,  who 
was  helping  him  take  off  his  coat. 

The  lame  committee-man  with  an  effort  sup- 
pressed remonstrance,  but  did  not  follow  the  Gov- 
ernor to  his  spacious  desk.  "Good  God!"  he  mur- 
mured to  himself.  His  fist  clinched. 

The  anxiety  on  the  faces  of  the  committee  mem- 
bers deepened.  They  were  all  on  their  feet,  practi- 
cally in  the  middle  of  the  room,  too  nervous  to  sit 

[71] 


SELF-JUSTIFIED 

down,  too  worried  and  anxious  to  be  conscious  of  their 
unconventional  position. 

The  Supreme  State  Executive  deposited  the  bulk 
of  his  body  in  his  armchair,  and  coolly  took  to  routine 
business.  He  listened  cordially  to  a  few  whispered 
reports  from  his  secretary,  and  commenced  to  look 
over  his  mail. 

Unconscious  to  themselves,  the  faces  of  the  com- 
mittee members  hardened.  How  could  he  sit  so  calmly 
when  every  minute  meant  so  much  to  them  —  so 
much! 

Helen  Bridges,  the  youngest  of  the  committee,  a 
beautiful  girl  with  wonderful  blue  eyes,  who  came  of 
a  wealthy  family,  noticed  the  newspaper  that  the 
executive  had  left  on  a  chair  as  he  entered.  "He  is 
a  murderer!"  she  breathed.  "He  read  in  the  paper 
that  a  committee  was  to  see  him  this  morning,  and  he 
deliberately  came  in  late.  He  will  never  commute 
Darwin  Manly 's  sentence.  He  will  kill  an  innocent 
man!" 

"Fifteen  minutes  to  twelve,"  muttered  the  lame 
James  Meyer.  "Twelve  o'clock  he  goes  to  the  chair. 
We  must  act  at  once." 

But  the  Governor  seemed  absorbed  in  his  mail. 
James  Meyer  shuffled  a  step  forward,  and  stopped 
again.  He  was  pale  and  quivering  with  anger. 

"Mr.  Governor,  we  must  speak  to  you  at  once!" 
Helen  Bridges  suddenly  exploded.  And  just  as  sud- 
denly, as  if  by  united  determination,  they  all  came 
forward  to  the  Governor's  desk. 

[72] 


SELF-JUSTIFIED 

The  Governor  looked  up,  rather  amused.  "In 
one  minute,"  he  said.  ''Kindly  sit  down;  I  shall  be 
right  with  you." 

"Governor,  we  must!"  the  girl  leaned  over  his 
desk,  her  lips  tight,  her  eyes  flashing  with  scorn. 

' '  Young  lady,  please  do  not  forget  yourself.  You 
are  in  the  presence  of : ' ' 

"It  is  the  life  of  an  innocent  man,  Governor.  It 
is  the  life  of  a  good  man ! ' ' 

The  Governor  wavered  for  an  instant.  "I  am 
sorry,  my  good  people.  I  cannot  do  anything  for 
you.  The  man  has  been  convicted  by  a  jury." 

"Oh-o-h!"  the  girl  gasped  with  disappointment. 

"Mr.  Governor,  the  man  is  innocent!"  exclaimed 
the  lame  James  Meyer.  "He  is  an  idealist ;  he  could 
never  throw  a  bomb  to  murder  human  lives.  It  is  a 
conspiracy  against  him  because  of  his  activity  in  the 
strike.  We  have  affidavits  from  the  witnesses  that 
they  were  bought  to  swear  falsely. ' ' 

' '  The  supreme  court  has  confirmed  his  penalty, ' ' 
the  Governor  pronounced  slowly. 

"But  why 'penalty'?  He  is  innocent.  The  pre- 
siding judge  himself  says  now  that  he  didn't  receive 
a  fair  trial." 

"We  cannot  allow  such  characters  at  liberty." 

"But  this  is  not  liberty!  Only  commute  his 
death  sentence.  The  criminal  will  be  found." 

' '  The  criminal  has  been  found.  A  jury  was  con- 
vinced of  his  guilt,  and  I  sha'n't  go  against  it.  There 

[73] 


SELF-JUSTIFIED 

were  witnesses  who  saw  him  throw  the  bomb  to  avenge 
himself  on  the  Woolen  Mills." 

"It's  a  lie!"  escaped  from  the  girl. 

"What?" 

"The  witnesses  were  false!  They  were  bought! 
Darwin  Manly  is  innocent  —  you  know  it!" 

"I'm  through  with  you."  And  the  Governor 
raised  his  bulk  from  the  seat.  "I  have  no  time  for 
discussion." 

"There  is  time  yet,  Governor.  Five  minutes  to 
twelve!" 

"I  will  not  listen!" 

"Mr.  Go-overnor,  this  is  a  crime.  Even  gov- 
ernors are  punished."  James  Meyer  looked  him 
straight  in  the  eyes.  The  radical's  jaw  was  set,  and 
he  got  so  close  to  the  Governor  that  the  executive  felt 
his  breath. 

The  Governor  wanted  to  retain  his  dignity,  tried 
to  look  straight  into  the  lame  Meyer's  eyes,  but  wav- 
ered. His  gaze  fell  on  Meyer's  crippled  leg,  and  he 
was  reminded  of  the  story  of  this  man 's  life  as  he  had 
read  it  in  the  newspapers :  how  he  had  been  a  com- 
mon railroad  worker,  until  he  met  with  an  accident 
in  which  he  was  crippled,  and  when  the  railroad  com- 
pany finally  won  out  in  court  in  the  suit  of  damages 
he  brought  against  them  he  became  embittered,  and 
swore  to  fight  Capital  with  his  life  and  became  one 
of  the  ablest  strike  leaders.  And  the  Governor 
thought  that  a  man  like  that  was  really  dangerous, 

[74] 


SELF-JUSTIFIED 

and  that  he,  the  Governor,  had  best  not  deal  with 
him  just  now. 

' '  Well ' '  said  the  Governor,  and  settled  in 

his  seat. 

' '  It  may  not  be  too  late  —  yet ! ' '  the  older  woman 
of  the  committee  implored. 

The  Governor  responded  only  with  a  wave  of 
his  arm. 

" Twelve  o'clock!"  came  like  a  death-knell  from 
the  girl.  "You  are  a  murderer!  A  murderer!" 

She  was  sobbing. 


Three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day. 

The  Governor's  secretary  shoved  the  telephone 
over  closer  to  him,  and  took  up  the  receiver. 

"Hello.  Yes  —  this  is  the  Governor's  office. 
Who  's  this? — Captain  Mercier? — Yes.  Is  that  so? 
The  man  who  threw  the  bomb  confessed?  Who?  A 
strike-breaker,  you  say?  Well  —  well!  No,  I 
wouldn't  believe  he  was  hired.  Yes  —  the  Governor 
is  here.  Certainly,  I'll  tell  him.  Good-bye." 

The  Governor  leaned  a  little  forward  in  his  seat 
and  listened.  He  grew  somewhat  pale,  and  puffed 
once  or  twice. 

' '  I  've  heard ! "  he  said  to  the  secretary,  who  was 
about  to  relate  the  news  to  him.  "You  may  tell  the 
reporters  I  will  make  my  statement  now. ' ' 

The  clerk  pressed  a  button,  spoke  a  few  words 
into  the  mouthpiece  of  the  telephone,  and  a  minute 

[75] 


SELF-JUSTIFIED 

later  a  flock  of  reporters  tore  into  the  Governor's 
room. 

"The  reason  I  refused  commutation,"  ran  part 
of  the  Governor's  statement,  "was  because  the  com- 
mittee demanded  anarchy  of  me.  They  insulted  me. 
I  shall  have  a  guard  with  me  now  all  the  time.  Their 
leader,  Meyer,  made  a  threat  upon  my  life." 


[76] 


Quips  of  Destiny 

LITTLE  Michail  Dobrowsky,  son  of  the  natural- 
ized American  citizen  and  resident  Fiodor  Do- 
brow —  alias  Dobrowsky  —  was  left  motherless 
and  stranded  in  the  great  city  of  Warsaw  the  first 
week  of  the  Great  war.  It  was  a  plain  case  of  an 
awkward  turn  of  destiny.  He  had  been  with  his 
mother  on  their  way  to  America  to  rejoin  his  father 
and  build  a  new  home  there,  for  which  Fiodor  Dobrow 
had  already  laid  the  foundation ;  but,  as  Fate  would 
have  it,  war  was  declared  right  after  they  had  sold 
out  their  little  homestead  in  the  village,  —  even  while 
they  were  on  their  way  to  their  beloved  father  and 
husband,  in  strange  places  and  among  strange  people. 

"Holy  Maria!"  exclaimed  the  stranded  wife 
when  she  was  told  by  the  transporting  agent  that  pas- 
sage to  America  was  impossible  for  a  while.  "What 
shall  I  do  now  ?  Where  shall  I  live  with  my  little  Mi- 
chail? And  I  have  no  ready  cash,  either.  I  must  at 
least  return  to  the  village.  My  good  sir,  I  pray,  will 
you  return  the  money  for  my  tickets  ? ' ' 

"No,"  snapped  the  agent  sharply,  knowing  the 
ignorance  of  the  peasant  woman.  ' '  I  cannot  take  the 
tickets  back,  and  you  shall  not  have  the  money." 

She  begged  him  to  advance  her  enough  to  carry 
her  child  and  herself  back  to  their  home  village,  but 

[77] 


QUIPS   OF   DESTINY 

the  agent,  whose  business  in  general  consisted  of  bleed- 
ing the  ignorant  emigrants,  sturdily  refused  her  any 
aid  whatsoever.  "I  am  ruined  by  this  war!"  he  kept 
on  complaining.  She  might  have  reported  him  to  the 
police,  but  of  this  he  had  no  fear ;  peasants  don't  know 
their  way  in  a  big  city. 

Then  the  woman  took  her  boy  by  the  hand  and 
left  the  agent's  office.  She  was  carrying  her  bundles 
on  her  back,  and  trudging  along  the  street,  weeping. 
Little  Michail  instinctively  pulled  her  back,  and  ut- 
tered a  shriek  of  horror.  But  it  was  too  late  —  there 
she  lay  under  the  wheels  of  an  electric  car. 

The  little  orphan-emigrant  cried,  blindly  wading 
in  the  blood  of  his  mother,  and  could  not  be  calmed  in 
the  ambulance.  A  kind  nurse  managed  to  lay  him 
to  sleep,  and  when  he  awoke  his  mother  had  already 
been  buried. 

He  cried  long,  calling  for  his  mother,  and  break- 
ing the  heart  of  the  good  nurse.  But  finally,  from  ex- 
haustion, he  quieted  down  and  fell  asleep  again.  .  .  . 

That  was  the  first  awkward  turn  in  the  little  em- 
igrant's  destiny.  He  became  the  protege  of  the  kind 
nurse.  But,  again,  that  was  not  his  good  fortune. 
The  nurse  was  called  to  war  duty  the  same  week,  and 
she  kissed  him  farewell  like  a  mother,  it  is  true.  He 
was  cast  now  upon  the  mercy  of  the  hospital  janitor, 
who  allowed  him  a  nook  in  his  dwelling. 

In  ordinary  times  he  might  have  got  along  splen- 
didly as  a  mascot  in  the  city  hospital,  receiving  favors 
from  the  childless  nurses,  and  having  his  meals  at  the 

[78] 


QUIPS    OF   DESTINY 

hospital  kitchen.  But  times  were  turbulent.  The 
hospitals  were  overcrowded,  nurses  were  scarce,  and 
all  overworked.  Every  hour  riots  occurred  in  the 
streets,  and  new  bleeding,  groaning  bodies  were 
rushed  in.  In  the  kitchen  food  was  short,  foodstuffs 
were  being  confiscated  and  carried  off  for  the  fight- 
ing armies.  The  nurses  grudged  every  crumb  of  bread 
or  spoonful  of  milk,  that  it  might  be  for  the  sick.  In 
such  privation  little  Michail  could  not  subsist  on 
favors. 

Already  he  had  been  drawn  along  in  the  immedi- 
ate reaction  to  the  Great  war,  and  he  was  swept  fur- 
ther into  it.  His  destiny  led  him  to  become  a  factor 
in  the  Great  war  —  one  of  the  millions  of  tiny  ones 
that  make  up  the  great  fact.  He  fought  no  bloody 
battle,  nor  did  he  make  his  way  by  soliciting  recruits ; 
yet,  we  must  admit,  he  was  a  little  screw  in  that  great 
machine  of  war.  He  sold  patriotic  post-cards  on  the 
street.  "Two  kopecks  for  the  picture  of  His  High- 
ness, the  Emperor  Nicholas!"  he  called  in  the  streets 
all  day  long,  proffering  to  the  restless  crowds  multi- 
colored photographs  of  the  Eussian  monarch. 

Many  a  beating  he  received  on  the  streets,  and 
many  a  lesson  in  life  he  learned  in  the  course  of  his 
self-dependence.  He  made  friends  with  some  revolu- 
tionists, and  they  utilized  him  on  a  few  occasions.  The 
policemen  on  the  streets  he  called  by  their  first  names, 
and  always  knew  when  one  of  them  was  slated  by 
some  revolutionist  or  other  to  be  brought  to  the  hos- 
pital with  a  cracked  skull  or  broken  rib.  On  one  oc- 

[79] 


QUIPS    OF   DESTINY 

casion  he  could  have  warned  the  policeman  of  the 
danger  in  store  for  him;  but  he  cared  not  to  do  so, 
although  he  was  truly  sorry  for  the  man. 

He  also  learned  to  hate  the  Czar.  He  cursed  him 
under  his  breath,  spitting  voluptuously.  But  he  bore 
no  malice  against  the  pictures  he  was  selling.  On  the 
contrary,  he  grew  to  like  the  daubs  of  bright  color  on 
the  post-cards.  He  could  not  part  from  the  paper  rec- 
tangles. They  became  part  of  him. 

So  passed  some  time,  indefinite  to  the  boy.  He 
grew  hardened  to  his  life,  and  day  after  day  mechan- 
ically called  out  his  wares.  ' '  Two  kopecks  for  the  pic- 
ture of  His  Highness,  the  Emperor  Nicholas!  Two 
kopecks ! "  He  had  temporarily  given  up  hope  of  ever 
seeing  his  father,  until  once  it  was  suggested  to  him 
by  one  of  his  revolutionary  friends  that  the  Ameri- 
can consul  might  do  something  for  him.  With  his 
aggressive  disposition  the  boy  soon  found  himself  at 
the  American  consulate,  a  bundle  of  pictures  in  one 
hand  and  the  address  of  his  father  carefully  sewed 
inside  the  lining  of  his  coat-tail. 

The  American  consul  listened  kindly  to  the  boy's 
story  and  then,  taking  up  a  pad  and  pencil,  asked 
him  for  his  name. 

"Michail  Dobrowsky,"  replied  Michail.  "My 
father  wrote  that  his  name  is  now  Dobrow  —  Fiodor 
is  his  first  name." 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  the  consul  suddenly,  and 
opened  a  drawer  in  his  desk.  "Your  father  has  al- 
ready been  searching  for  you  and  your  mother.  Here 

[80] 


QUIPS   OF   DESTINY 

are  orders  I  received  from  the  Foreign  Office  to  in- 
vestigate your  case."  He  looked  down  at  the  boy 
with  evident  satisfaction,  and  added:  "Once  again 
the  United  States  has  helped  one  of  her  adopted  sons 

—  Fiodor  Dobrow  this  time.  Well,  well !  At  the  first 
opportunity,  my  boy,  you  shall  start  for  your  father 

—  and  America." 


A  great  trans-atlantic  liner  landed  at  the  New 
York  harbor.  There  were  many  stories  of  the  ship's 
dodging  of  submarines.  But  what  made  the  safe  ar- 
rival of  the  boat  more  interesting,  was  that  on  board 
arrived  a  few  notables,  including  a  variety  actress 
with  her  dog,  whose  pictures  (the  dog's  in  full  post- 
card plate)  appeared  on  the  front  page  in  the  noon 
editions  of  the  newspapers.  It  was  great  news,  and 
would  have  held  "leader"  place  on  the  front  pages, 
but  for  another  tremendous  event  which  occurred 
that  same  day,  obscuring  the  liner's  sea  peril  stories, 
in  which  the  actress  with  the  dog  seemed  to  have 
played  such  a  brave  part  The  overtopping  event  of 
news  value  was  the  explosion  in  an  ammunition  plant 
at  the  cost  of  over  a  hundred  lives.  So,  eventually, 
in  the  Extra  evening  editions  the  full  plate  picture 
of  the  actress'  dog  was  removed  to  the  Entertainment 
page,  to  give  space  to  the  picture  of  a  man  with  a  bull- 
dog jaw,  who  was  the  president  of  the  corporation, 

[81] 


QUIPS   OF   DESTINY 

and  who  might  have  been  hurt  were  not  his  offices 
quite  a  distance  from  the  factory  buildings. 

However,  the  list  of  the  prominent  names  on  the 
safely-arrived  steamer  continued  to  hold  space  in  the 
columns  of  the  newspapers.  But  where  was  the  list 
of  the  hundred  ammunition  workers  who  had  been 
blown  to  eternity  in  the  "great"  explosion?  Was 
there  not  someone  worth  while  amongst  these  ?  Alas, 
none,  it  would  seem;  no  list  of  the  dead  appeared  in 
print. 

Yet,  had  there  appeared  such  a  list,  one  might 
have  read  that  one  of  these  victims  was  a  certain  Fio- 
doo*  Dobrow,  a  naturalized  American  citizen.  Of 
course,  not  many  could  know  that  exactly  the  very 
same  day  Fiodor  was  expecting  his  little  son  from  Eu- 
rope—  they  couldn't  know  that,  because  the  name  of 
little  Michail  Dobrowsky  did  not  appear  in  the  list  of 
prominent  arrivals,  although,  and  coincidentally,  he 
happened  to  be  on  board  the  steamer  that  had  eluded 
the  submarines. 

This  was  more  than  an  awkward  turn  in  little 
Michail's  destiny.  It  was  the  big  tragedy  of  the  little 
boy's  life.  Undoubtedly,  it  was  the  handiwork  of 
Destiny,  for  in  which  comedy  or  tragedy  is  not  Des- 
tiny the  protagonist;  yes,  there  lay  the  hand  of  Des- 
tiny, merciless. 

Now,  Fiodor  Dobrow  had  never  had  even  a  look 
at  his  son,  having  left  his  wife  before  their  child  was 
born  —  and  he  had  not  lived  to  taste  that  joy.  His 

[82] 


QUIPS    OF   DESTINY 

little  son  was  received  at  Ellis  Island  by  a  weeping, 
middle-aged  woman,  who  was  the  dead  man's  sister. 
Her  appearance  was  such  that  at  once  little  Michail 
took  pity  on  her. 

His  premonition  proved  true.  His  aunt  was  poor, 
a  widow,  and  supported  by  two  boys  who  were  selling 
newspapers.  She  lived  in  a  filthy  cellar,  and  she  kept 
bewailing  the  boy's  ill  luck  and  the  loss  of  her  dear 
brother.  Little  Michail,  after  his  experience  in  War- 
saw, was  bored  the  first  day,  and  demanded  what 
could  he  do  for  a  living  —  quite  an  American  idea. 

And  now,  once  again,  came  a  quirk  of  destiny 
in  the  life  of  the  youthful  immigrant.  This  time  Fate 
would  have  it  that  once  more  his  work  should  be  in 
the  agency  of  the  Great  war.  Again  he  became,  un- 
consciously, a  tiny  screw  in  the  vast  machine  of  war. 

It  was  all  very  simple. 

The  United  States  had  at  last  declared  war. 
There  was  a  rush  for  patriotic  demonstration,  and  the 
most  that  people  did  at  first  towards  that  was  to  wear 
a  flag-button  in  the  lapels.  Bedraggled  boys  at  once 
appeared  on  the  streets  selling  off  all  kinds  of  flags, 
pins  and  buttons  with  the  "colors"  on. 

By  virtue  of  their  newspaper  business  little  Mi- 
chairs  American  cousins  knew  where  these  buttons 
were  to  be  obtained  for  sale,  and  they  secured  a  stock 
of  them  for  Michail.  They  taught  him  how  to  pro- 
nounce his  wares,  and  soon  little  Michail  once  again 
was  engaged,  for  a  livelihood,  in  the  sale  of  war 
supplies. 

[83] 


QUIPS   OF   DESTINY 

He  knew  not  the  meaning  of  his  words,  but  all 
day  long  he  kept  shouting:  "Get  your  flag  here  for 
five  cents!  Show  your  colors !  Old  Glory,  five  cents !" 


[84] 


A     000128901     6 


